


One Hundred Sleepless Nights

by luxcurious



Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers Family, Avengers Feels, BAMF Peter Parker, Bullying, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Deaf Clint Barton, Depressed Peter Parker, Do Not Archive, Domestic Avengers, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Families of Choice, Family Bonding, Family Drama, Family Dynamics, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gay Michelle Jones, Gay Peter Parker, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Insecure Peter Parker, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, OOC Flash Thompson, Oblivious Avengers, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Peter Parker Feels, Peter Parker Has Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Joins the Avengers, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Peter Parker is Not Okay, Peter Parker is a Good Actor, Peter Saves The Day, Poor Peter Parker, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Avengers, Protective Peter Parker, Sad Peter Parker, Team as Family, Teen Peter Parker, Traumatized Peter Parker, basically I made him into a a really awful person when in canon he's only like a minor jerk, but they love and care about peter, don’t hate the team too much, don’t think otherwise!, healing factors are terribly taken advantage of in this shit, maybe I'll fix that later, spider-man may not be a menace but the author sure is, they’ve got a lot going on, whoops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-05-13 01:41:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14739689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxcurious/pseuds/luxcurious
Summary: Three months after the earth-shattering discoveries made in Siberia, Captain America reached out to his former friend to try and make amends. Tony agreed, knowing just how much the world still needed the Rogue Avengers. Within a week, the whole team was under the same roof once again.But while the rest of the Avengers are playing catch-up, Spider-Man—a.k.a. 15 year old Peter Parker—is struggling. Unwilling to ask for help and risk bringing attention to his mounting list of problems, Peter tries to singlehandedly prevent his life from falling apart.Unfortunately for him, his rotten Parker luck has other plans.OR:AU in which the Avengers manage to settle their differences and become a team again, with the addition of a very lovable Spider-Man.(1/1/19: RATING HAS CHANGED FROM T+ TO M! I actually changed this a few months ago, but I guess AO3 didn’t save it... Sorry to my readers for not noticing before now. Also, the M rating is not for sexual content, but other mature themes.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My Wonderful Betas: @screamingalex @magniloquentChanteuse
> 
> My Fantastic Revisionist: @FullMetalNerd
> 
>  **Trigger Warnings**  
>  _Note: this list pertains only to this chapter._  
>  Swearing, Self-Depreciation

Peter Parker doesn’t like his own reflection.

 

He dislikes it so much, in fact, that he stares in the mirror every morning, silent and judging as he counts every scar and bruise til they all blur together into one big, ugly blemish.

 

But eventually, once he can no longer separate the individual failures mapped out across his skin, Peter speaks. He whispers to his reflection, telling it sweet lies that he desperately wishes were true.

 

This little routine is the only way Peter manages to survive living in his own skin.

 

Currently, he’s in the middle of the second step, and he’s chatting to his shirtless mirror self, a faux-confident smile on his face.

 

(The lies are easier to swallow with it.)

 

“You’re awesome, Peter,” he tells himself, trying to ignore the sound of his shaky, adolescent voice. “No, you’re not awesome—you’re incredible—you’re _amazing_.”

 

Standing up and strutting across the room, Peter leaps onto the far wall, across his bed, and scrambles up to sit on the ceiling.

 

“See!” He exclaims, forcing a note of excitement into his tone. “You’re the _amazing Spider-Man_! No one’s as cool as you.”

 

Peter drops down in front of the mirror once again, dragging his gaze back to his reflection. He nearly gags as he pretends to flex his non-existent muscles, hating how utterly _pathetic_ he looks.

 

“You’re hot stuff,” he says instead, hiding his disgust easily. “Hotter than ghost pepper-sriracha chilli!

 

“You’re the greatest superhero New York has ever seen,” he continues with concealed bitterness, deepening his voice in an attempt to resemble Thor. “You’re as brave as a lion; you practically _ooze_ confi—”

 

Suddenly, Peter feels the familiar tingle at the base of his skull, and he whips around, no doubt looking like a deer caught in the headlights.

 

Captain America is leaning against his door frame, his thick, muscular arms crossed over his even more muscular chest. He’s wearing his new suit, the navy blue and black one that just makes him look even more sexy and intimidating. His neatly-trimmed beard can’t hide the amusement that’s clear on his face.

 

Peter is absolutely horrified.

 

The teen can only watch as the super soldier doubles over in laughter, clutching his sides like a lifeline.

 

_He’s laughing at you, Peter,_ his brain hisses. Peter visibly flinches, but Steve’s still too busy laughing to notice. _He’s laughing at how pathetic you are—at how disgusting you are_. _He’s seeing every single time you failed from the scars all over your body, and he’s thinking just how crazy it is for you to even be here. He’s laughing at you because you’re a mistake, Peter_. _Just like Flash and everyone else at school always say_.

 

Peter can feel the tears coming, and he draws in on himself, turning away from the man he’ll never be nearly as good as. He wraps his arms around his stomach, almost like he’s hugging himself.

 

Really, he’s just trying not to fall apart.

 

“Please don’t tell anyone,” he finally whispers.

 

Abruptly, the Captain’s laughter stops, and Peter can _hear_ the straightening of the man’s spine, each vertebrae cracking loudly.

 

The sound makes Peter want to rip his own ear drums out.

 

But he doesn’t move, he doesn’t even breathe, not until the older man answers.

 

And he supposes his voice just sounds so _small_ , so full of _shame_ and _fear_ , that Steve—the beautiful, selfless soul—can’t help but grant him that one wish.

 

“I won’t,” the Captain says softly, before turning around and exiting the room, closing the door gently behind him.

 

***

 

Peter doesn’t leave his quarters until dinner.

 

When he does, the whole team is already gathered in the communal living room, half sat in front of the TV and waiting for the other half to finish getting their food.

 

“Look who decided to show up!” Mr. Stark shouts, his signature smirk gracing his face. Peter stiffens, but quickly relaxes, forcing a tried smile to his face.

 

“Sorry,” he answers softly. Too softly—he clears his throat, making his grin bigger and his voice louder. The amount of effort it takes is worrying. “I’m just really tired today. Homework’s been a bitch, lately.”

 

“Language,” Clint pipes up from his seat, head laying in Natasha’s lap as one of her hands cards through his hair absentmindedly. Peter rolls his eyes, a thin veil of strained amusement masking his true annoyance.

 

It’s not Clint’s fault Peter isn’t in the mood for jokes. These days, he never really is.

 

“Yeah, sure,” Mr. Stark interrupts the teen’s thoughts, still smirking at him. “I’m sure you’ve been up late because of homework, and not because of the mysterious and elusive ‘ _MJ’_ you were texting the other day.”

 

Peter feels his face heat up, despite the lack of truth to Mr. Stark’s sarcastic words. MJ really is just a good friend of his—nothing more, and nothing less. It would be kind of impossible for him to be interested in her anyway, considering MJ is a girl who’s only into girls, and Peter’s a guy who’s only into guys.

 

Of course, no one on the team knows that Peter is gay—he wouldn’t ever dream of telling them. While the logical side of Peter knows that they wouldn’t shun him or kick him off the team for his sexual orientation, he still thinks it’s best if he keeps the information to himself. After all, even the most accepting of people are still uncomfortable sharing a locker room with him, despite having no problems with it before.

 

(Peter knows this from experience).

 

“Really, it’s just homework,” Peter finally mumbles, and he really wishes Mr. Stark would just drop it. He absolutely _hates_ having to pretend in front of the team, and he _hates_ having to hide who he is, but when they pester him about girls, he doesn’t have any other choice.

 

Mr. Stark snorts disbelievingly.

 

“Mhmm, and I’m Winston Churchill,” he retorts cheerily. “But, whatever! If you don’t wanna share with the class, that’s fine. But at least get your lazy, no-good teenager ass moving so we can play the damn movie.”

 

Peter distantly hears someone scold Mr. Stark for his swearing, but he can’t tell who. His body is on autopilot, carrying him over to the kitchen counter to stare unseeingly at the styrofoam boxes of food.

 

Finally spotting the box marked “PeePee” ( _yeah, real mature, Clint_ ), Peter tries to ignore the ache deepening in his chest at his mentor’s words. Rationally, he knows Mr. Stark is most likely just teasing him, but his self-confidence is already so low from the fiasco this morning that he can’t help but take the comment to heart.

 

Peter curls up on the empty loveseat in the corner of the room, feeling just a little bit better once he’s cloaked in shadows, obscured from the rest of the team. He lets his face drop and his shoulders sag, tucking his knees against his chest as he presses himself into the arm of the couch. His styrofoam box is propped up on one hand, and he listlessly stirs the fried rice and kung-pow chicken with the other.

 

Suddenly the couch dips, and Peter straightens his spine, scooching even closer to the arm. It takes a second for him to realize the identity of his new seatmate, but once he does, anxiety washes over him like a 10 foot wave.

 

“So,” Steve asks, obviously feigning casualty. Peter almost winces in sympathy at the failed attempt. “What happened this morning?”

 

Peter scrambles for a half decent lie. While Cap is certainly not the hardest of the Avengers to fool, he’s also not the easiest.

 

“I was embarrassed,” the teen finally admits, deciding to go with a toned-down version of the truth. “I didn’t exactly want anyone to see me calling myself ghost-pepper-sriracha-flavored chilli.”

 

Steve laughs at that, and Peter breathes a little easier. Despite the pang in his chest at bringing up the humiliating memory, he feels relieved, knowing that he’s in the clear.

 

“Well, I’m sorry for embarrassing you, kiddo,” the older man says apologetically, reigning in his amusement. Peter smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

 

“S’okay,” he answers quietly, suddenly all too aware of the stillness of the room. “Just… try not to sneak up on me next time.”

 

Steve laughs again before standing up and walking back over to the rest of the group, effectively ending their conversation.

 

Most of Peter is relieved that the Captain has ceased his little interrogation, but a small, selfish part of him wishes he wasn’t left to sit alone.

 

Again.

 

Sighing quietly, Peter glances at his mess of a meal and wrinkles his nose, appetite non-existent. He forces a few forkfuls of rice into his mouth anyway, but gives up when the nausea nearly overwhelms him.

 

Surrendering to the fact that eating is apparently just not on his schedule today, Peter gently sets the styrofoam box on the floor next to him. He curls up on the loveseat and closes his eyes, letting the terrible, cheesy dialogue of _Casablanca_ lull him to sleep.

 

***

 

Peter wakes up hours later, still on the couch and with a crick in his neck. He’s just about to stretch out his limbs with a loud yawn when a hushed conversation reaches him, no doubt thanks to his super-hearing.

 

”Is it just me, or did the spider-kid seem a little off tonight?”

 

Peter’s breath catches. That’s Mr. Stark’s voice.

 

“Yeah, about that…” Steve’s deep baritone answers, and Peter can practically _feel_ the amusement beneath the man’s sheepish tone.

 

(The fact that he’s just a joke to Steve stings, but it’s not entirely unexpected. Peter is just a joke to a lot of people, so he’s used to the feeling).

 

“Damnit Cap, what did you do this time?” The mechanic asks, voice exasperated, but the same wisps of humor are present.

 

(That hurts a little more, considering how close he and Mr. Stark had once been. Although they haven’t spent much quality time together since Peter agreed to join the Avengers, the teen was reluctant to admit that the whole _dad act_ was likely just a ploy to get him on the team. But now that he’s hearing first hand what Tony really thinks of him, Peter can’t deny it any longer. It hurts, but he’s not mad. He understands. Peter wouldn’t want to be friends with himself, either.)

 

“I kinda walked in on him while he was getting dressed,” Cap answers, making Peter’s cheeks heat up. He supposes the half truth is better than the whole one, but he still wishes the super-soldier would’ve come up with something better.

 

Mr. Stark snorts, and the familiar sound of him cuffing the back of Steve’s head would be endearing if Peter’s humiliation wasn’t the reason for it.

 

“Oh, I’m sure the kid’s pasty skin and left-over baby fat was just _so_ attractive,” Mr. Stark jabs playfully, but Peter’s heart drops into his stomach.

 

”Ugh, Tony, don’t even joke about that, it’s gross,” Steve replies, his tone one of genuine disgust.

 

Mr. Stark cackles as Peter’s heart plunges from his stomach all the way to the floor, and tears push heavily against the backs of his eyes. They burn as they spill over, and Peter finds himself incredibly glad that his back is to the room’s inhabitants, his face hidden in the crease of the couch.

 

Peter waits in miserable silence for Mr. Stark and Steve to finish their conversation—which has moved away from the topic of him, thank God—as the tears fall, but the taste of salt on his lips mixes with the smell of cold Chinese food and makes him feel like he’s going to vomit. Just as he’s about to hit his breaking point and puke all over the sofa, Steve and Mr. Stark finally part ways, the former going to his bedroom, and the latter to his labs.

 

According to his spidey-senses, neither man even spares Peter a glance.

 

And yet, he waits another three minutes—counting every second—before he gets up and speed walks to the communal half-bath, slumping down to hug the white porcelain as he dry heaves into the toilet bowl.

 

Only after ten minutes does Peter remember that there’s nothing in his stomach for him to throw up.

 

And so, after a minute of just laying with his head pressed against the cool bathroom floor in a desperate attempt to stop the nausea, Peter gives up and leaves, heading for the kitchen.

 

He wants to be useful to make up for being AWOL all day, even if he hadn’t actually had anything in particular planned. But the way Mr. Stark called him lazy earlier doesn’t sit right with him, so he decides to clean the mess of a kitchen, washing dishes and stacking plates until his legs are wobbly and his vision edges black.

 

The teen just sighs tiredly when he realizes he’s only half way done by 2:30 a.m.

 

_What’s one more sleepless night?_ He ponders silently as he scrubs the soy sauce stains from the crisp white tiles of the kitchen floor. _I can go one more night without sleep, easy peasy._

 

_***_

 

That morning, at 5:45 a.m., before anyone else is up, Peter wakes up lying face down on the sparkling kitchen floor. He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment what you think! Is this something I should continue?
> 
> **May 24, 2018**  
>  It’s been brough to my attention that this fic has been marked as complete, despite the fact that I have not set it as such. While I was not sure if I was planning to continue this when I first posted it (don’t worry, I’ve decided to!), this story was always supposed to be advertised as “incomplete.” The “angst w/ a happy ending” tag is there simply because if (now, when!) the story is continued, it will, in fact, have a happy ending. I don’t read, nor write, anything else. Anyway, I hope this clears things up! Thank you all for reading, and double thank you to all who comment and/or leave kudos! I love and appreciate every single one of you, and I hope to see y’all on the next step of this journey <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update less than a week later?! Yo, that’s crazy! I never do that! Well, I hope y’all enjoy!
> 
> My Wonderful Betas: @screamingalex @magniloquentChanteuse
> 
> My Fantastic Revisionist: @FullMetalNerd
> 
>  **Trigger Warnings**  
>  _Note: this list pertains only to this chapter._  
>  Swearing, Self-Depreciation, Bullying, Threats of Violence, EDNOS Thoughts and Behaviors, References to Past Suicidal Thoughts/Actions, Homophobia (H-slur, F-slur, D-slur)

That morning, after waking up on the kitchen floor, Peter has just enough time to stand up and pour himself a glass of water before Sam comes wandering in.

 

“Hey, Peter,” the man says quietly, obviously trying to avoid making too much noise. “How did you sleep last night?”

 

Peter smiles at his teammate, grabbing the carton of orange juice from the fridge and handing it over. He hasn’t had the chance to complete his morning ritual yet, and it’s making him antsy.

 

“I slept okay,” he answers softly, trying to ignore the pain in his body that disagrees. Clearing his throat and walking his now-empty glass over to the sink, Peter pretends to bite back a smile, knowing his lie will be more believable if it’s followed up with a joke. “I was knocked out during most of _Casablanca_ , anyway.”

 

Sam chuckles, downing the last of his orange juice. Peter puts the carton away and moves the dirty cup into the sink without hesitation. He doesn’t want Sam to think he’s lazy like Mr. Stark does.

 

“Yeah, I’m with you on that,” the older man says, bending over to tie his shoelaces. “I fell asleep after the first scene myself.”

 

Peter smiles widely when Sam straightens back up, trying to appear amused. It’s not that he doesn’t like talking to Sam—in fact, Sam is probably his favorite teammate to talk to nowadays, except for maybe Bruce.

 

No, the reason Peter has to fake a smile for his friend is simple.

 

Nothing makes him happy anymore.

 

It all started when Ben died. Peter had been so wrapped up in feelings of grief, anger, and guilt, that he just didn’t have any room left over for anything else.

 

Of course, being Spider-Man had helped with that. It’d let him channel those feelings into something productive—something that made him feel _useful_ and _important_.

 

But then The Incident happened a few months later, and the bullying became nearly unbearable.

 

At one point, Peter had suffered a locker-room beating so bad that he had to stop doing patrol for almost a month.

 

(Peter changes in the janitor’s closet now.)

 

With the absence of Spider-Man, there was nothing left to give Peter any sort of relief. So, naturally, the hurt from the hateful words his classmates spat at him crept in, filling the empty space so rapidly that Peter was almost lost in it.

 

(It was around then that Peter learned his healing factor was annoyingly good at keeping him alive.)

 

And then, like a god-sent intervention, _Tony_ _fucking Stark_ showed up in his living room the day he planned to learn the taste of lead.

 

Peter had taken it as sign, and shamefully realized that it was selfish of him to deprive the world of a protector, no matter how small or useless he was. When he was out as Spider-Man, he helped people, and sometimes even saved people’s lives. Putting a bullet in his own head meant that any unfortunate soul in Queen’s might get one in theirs—and that was something that Peter simply could not allow.

 

Peter is pulled out of his musings by the feeling of someone ruffling his hair, and he stiffens automatically, tense and ready to fight before belatedly realizing that it’s just Sam.

 

“Bye, kid!” Sam says enthusiastically, apparently not realizing how close he’d been to being judo flipped six feet under by the teen.

 

“Bye,” Peter calls back meekly, knowing Sam probably won’t hear him anyway.

 

For a moment after the other man’s departure, Peter stands still as a statue in the middle of the kitchen, debating whether or not to make himself breakfast.

 

He glances towards the counter, staring blankly at the spot where Mr. Stark and Steve had sat the night before.

 

Peter decides he isn’t hungry.

 

Instead, he shuffles listlessly back to his room, locking the door behind him before moving to the mirror.

 

Numbly, Peter’s trembling hands clutch the hem of his shirt and slowly pull it off. He keeps his eyes closed, a sense of foreboding thick in the air around him, making it hard to breathe.

 

Peter’s shirt doesn’t make a sound as it lays itself haphazardly across his floor, brushing against his toes in a way that makes him shudder. He kicks it away, watching it’s descent against the opposite wall.

 

Amidst the fluttering of black fabric, he spots the familiar red and gold of the Iron Man logo.

 

Quickly, Peter turns back to the mirror, forcing his critical gaze to travel up and down his body for the first time that morning.

 

As per usual, he counts every scar and bruise, recalling each event that gave him them. He relives the shame of his failures, festering in it until he’s itching to rip himself out of his own skin.

 

Just as he’s about to shift into the second step of his ritual, a chill slips in through his open window and reminds him of the shirt sitting discarded on the other side of his room. The Iron Man logo flashes in his mind's eye.

 

 _“Oh, I’m sure the kid’s pasty skin and left-over baby fat was just_ so _attractive.”_

 

Peter glances at the mirror again, noticing the bump of his stomach over the waistband of his pajama pants and the annoying fullness of his cheeks.

 

 _Frogface_ , Clint had once called him, poking fun at the youthful roundness of Peter’s facial structure. At the time, Peter had begrudgingly thought it was funny. But now, the thought just makes him want to cry.

 

 _When did this happen?_ Peter wonders desperately, glaring balefully at his reflection.

 

He’s never hated it as much as he does in that moment.

 

***

 

It’s two days after overhearing Mr. Stark’s and Steve’s conversation and Peter is walking up the steps to his school, Ned and MJ at his side.

 

Ned is telling him about the new Death Star LEGO Set his parents got him for his birthday last week when someone bumps into Peter, sending his books to the ground. Immediately, he crouches, beginning to gather his things back together. He doesn’t need to look up to see who it is—he already knows.

 

“Watch where you’re going, _Penis_ ,” Flash taunts, but Peter can feel his heartbeat speeding up and his hands getting clammy, so he just ignores the older boy.

 

Apparently, Flash doesn’t like being ignored.

 

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, Parker,” he snarls, shoving Peter’s shoulder and sending him toppling over, flat on his butt.

 

(Peter could’ve easily stayed upright, but he decided a long time ago that keeping his identity a secret is more important than his pride.)

 

Flash laughs, unaware of MJ’s glare. Peter gulps. That’s MJ’s “I’ma-fuck-your-shit-up” glare, and having been on the receiving end of it once or twice himself, he almost feels sorry for Flash.

 

That is, until he bends down and snatches Peter’s sketchbook off the ground, beginning to flip though it idly.

 

Peter doesn’t think, he just reacts. He’s off the ground and literally _lunging_ at Flash before he even realizes his body is moving.

 

Unfortunately, Peter stumbles slightly and the older boy is able to side-step his impressive gymnastics. Flash reads from the sketchbook, cruel amusement in his voice.

 

“ _Cerulean and sunshine_

_soft sand and rumbling waves_

_salt-kissed lips cracked and smiling...”_

 

With mounting horror, Peter recognizes the poem as one he’d written years ago about his hero-worship crush on Captain America. Despite harboring no feelings for the man since he’d dropped a jet bridge on Peter in Germany, the reminder of Steve prods the open wound in his heart, still unhealed after the conversation he’d overheard Saturday night.

 

Peter is frozen as time slows down around him. He can’t hear Flash’s voice anymore, and everyone seems to be moving at a snail’s pace, like they’re wading through molasses.

 

Peter can recall Mr. Stark’s voice clear as day as he makes fun of his ‘baby fat,’ and the revulsion Steve uses when he agrees with him.

 

The thought makes him regret eating breakfast this morning.

 

_“...whisper across the vastness_

_separating lands like an icy aby—“_

 

Peter is pulled out of his dizzying trance when a large, blurry shape zooms past his head, traveling faster than everything else and shattering the spell. Flash’s voice cuts off abruptly as he drops Peter’s sketchbook and clutches his head, moaning.

 

Peter is still shell-shocked, too terrified to even process the fact that people are laughing at him from the sidelines, and that he should just _grab his stuff and_ _get the fuck out of there_.

 

Thankfully, MJ and Ned are still acting like functioning human beings, and Peter lets Ned lead him away while MJ retrieves her backpack and Peter’s sketchbook from beside Flash, who’s now swaying slightly on the steps, looking dazed and confused.

 

It takes Peter a moment to process everything, but when he does, he turns to Ned, an incredulous and slightly impressed look on his face.

 

“Did she just throw her entire backpack at him?” He asks, wincing at the thought of all the heavy books undoubtedly stashed in the bag.

 

“Yeah,” Ned answers happily, a proud smile on his face.

 

Peter just nods. MJ is someone he doesn’t think he’ll ever fully understand, but after knowing the girl for years, he’s accepted that as a fact of life.

 

A minute later, MJ catches up to them, her nose tucked back in a book and one hand extended, Peter’s sketchbook resting securely in her grip.

 

Peter takes the book back gently, running his hands over the worn cover as he whispers his thanks to his friend. She just hums quietly, which Peter knows is MJ-speak for “no problem.”

 

They walk the rest of the way to the library in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

 

_***_

 

Peter’s first four periods go by much too fast, and before he knows it, he’s sitting by himself at a table in the corner of the cafeteria, his rumbling stomach protesting the empty tray in front of him.

 

MJ is meeting with her History teacher and Ned left early for a doctor’s appointment, so Peter is alone.

 

(Minus the mating whale that has apparently taken up residence in his abdomen, of course.)

 

Logically, Peter knows that he needs to eat something if he doesn’t to want to feel like a zombie for the rest of the day. His metabolism is much too fast to run on fumes.

 

He pinches the bit of squishy skin on his hip bones, frowning deeply.

 

“What’s one more skipped meal?” He mumbles under his breath, pushing his empty tray away with more force than necessary. “I can go a few more hours without food, easy peasy.”

 

Suddenly, Peter’s spidey-senses tingle dully at the base of his skull, just enough to make him aware of the person striding towards him.

 

Peter already knows who it is— _it’s always him_ —but he looks up anyway, sighing tiredly at the angry look on Flash’s face.

 

Upon arriving at Peter’s table, Flash opens his mouth to speak, but the younger boy cuts him off, hoping to stem the flood of hateful words before they even begin.

 

“Hey, Flash, I’m _so_ sorry about this morning. I don’t know what MJ was thinking—is your head okay? She’s got a crap ton of hardcovers in there, I wouldn’t be surprised if it left a bruise…”

 

Peter is rambling and he knows it, desperately trying to delay the inevitable. At first Flash is shocked by _Peter Parker_ apologizing to _him_ , but as the teen continues to speak, his demeanor sours once again.

 

“Shut the fuck up, Parker,” Flash finally barks, annoyance clear in his tone. “I don’t care about what that freaky dyke bitch reads, I just caring about making her pay. And since you’re a homo too, I might as well do that through you.”

 

Peter’s vision goes red.

 

His hands are fisted tightly under the table, nails slicing crescent moons into his palms. He’s grinding his teeth so hard that the scraping of molars against molars is all he can hear. He stands up, body shaking with barely concealed rage as he levels Flash with the most menacing glare in his arsenal.

 

“Don’t you _ever_ talk about MJ like that again, do you hear me?” Peter whispers dangerously, low enough so that only the other boy can hear him. “Say whatever you want about me, but if I see you even so much as _look_ at her wrong after today, I’ll gouge your fucking eyes out.”

 

With that, Peter steps away, the rush of anger-filled adrenaline melting away like snow on the first day of Spring. Peter’s entire body hurts, and his exhaustion is bone deep—so much so that he’s almost afraid to walk.

 

As the teen shakily makes his retreat, he notices the marginally terrified look on Flash’s face morph back to one of anger. Thankfully, Peter manages to blend in with the shadows of the cafeteria well enough to escape the older boy’s notice, and he slips out the backdoors.

 

He’s knows he can’t go back to school today, not with Flash still strutting around. In Peter’s current state of mind, it would only take one rude comment from the boy and he would snap.

 

(Peter doesn’t want to hurt anybody, but sometimes, he can’t contain the anger that’s always simmering under the surface of his skin, like trapped pockets of air. It’s days like these, when he’s too tired to fight the urges, that he can almost see the appeal of lethal combat.)

 

 _This isn’t a battlefield, Peter!_ The teen reminds himself as he walks past the small parking lot and the football field, officially leaving school grounds. _It’s just a bit of name-calling, the same shit you’ve been dealing with for years._

 

Peter continues to berate himself for almost losing his cool with Flash for the rest of his walk, only stopping when he finally arrives at his usual street-corner in East Brooklyn.

 

The thought of what he’s about to do makes his stomach lurch, so Peter focuses on his breathing, brown eyes scanning the horizon as the cold from the brick wall he’s leaning against seeps into his bones.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t say for sure when the next chapter will be published, just that it will probably not be as quickly as this one was. But don’t despair! I have already started working on it :) And I promise, the Avengers will start appearing more, I’m just currently displaying everyday life for Peter. Anyway, thank you all for reading, and please leave kudos and/or comments if you enjoyed!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Wonderful Betas: @screamingalex @magniloquentChanteuse
> 
> My Fantastic Revisionist: @FullMetalNerd
> 
>  **Trigger Warnings**  
>  _Note: this list pertains only to this chapter._  
>  Swearing, Self-Depreciation, EDNOS Thoughts and Behaviors, Brief References to Suicidal Ideation

Peter gets home late that night, and he barely has enough energy to stuff his measly earnings into the drawer of his bedside table before he passes out, not even bothering to slide under the covers.

 

In his dreams, he’s plagued with the ever-present feeling of shame that he’s become reluctantly accustomed to. It haunts him every second, asleep or awake, clinging to him desperately like lint clings to laundry.

 

But on nights like this, the shame burns brighter than usual. Its flaming tendrils lick and kiss at his skin, leaving him floundering in an ocean of tears and sweat and endlessly tangled sheets.

 

It’s on nights like this that Peter wishes that he wasn’t Spider-Man. If he isn’t Spider-Man, then there’s nothing stopping him from just… never waking up. Nothing to stop him from letting his battered and bruised soul swan-dive into the abyss, never to be seen again.

 

But Peter is Spider-Man, so every morning he yanks himself back from the precipice to face another day of agony.

 

Today is no different.

 

Peter sits bolt upright in his bed, eyes blown wide and lips in the shape of an “O,” gasping for breath. The sheets twisted around him are heavy with perspiration, and Peter stumbles out of their damp cocoon on unsteady legs. He feels like his brain has been tossed in a blender that’s set on high. The room around him is spinning, whirling, dipping up and down like a ballerina on her fifth consecutive pirouette. Up is down and down is up, and Peter isn’t surprised to find himself clinging to his ceiling when his vision finally settles.

 

It takes another few minutes of deep, steadying breaths for Peter to finally drop down from his perch on silent feet, directly in front of his room’s full length mirror. He sighs in resignation when he notices the purple-y yellow ring around his right eye, realizing that it was most likely the culprit for his less-than-graceful start to the morning.

 

Peter shrugs his shirt off and leans in closer to the reflective glass, his thin fingers fluttering up to his face to examine the new bruise. He winces at the dull wave of pain emanating from the spot, but continues nonetheless, poking and prodding the discolored skin until he’s satisfied that nothing is broken.

 

When Peter lets his fingers fall away from his face, he notices the scraped knuckles and the slightly swollen joints, and he curls them into fists, closing his eyes at the stiffness of the tendons. The shame crashes into him again with the force of a tidal wave and he shudders, utterly disgusted with himself. He hates these new injuries with a passion, because he hates what they stand for.

 

He hates what he’s done to earn them.

 

Peter takes another hour to complete his morning ritual before throwing on a pair of jeans and baggy sweatshirt. He tiptoes across the living room, quiet as a mouse as he makes a beeline straight for the exit.

 

But of course, May catches him on his way out the door, deftly steering him back to the small, wooden table in the middle of the kitchen as she scolds him gently.

 

“You weren’t home for dinner last night, so I need to make sure to get at least one good meal in you before you’re off,” she says, setting a slightly burnt omelette on the table before him. The Dixie paper plate sags beneath the omelette’s weight, already straining to combat the corrosive grease dripping off of it. It looks absolutely revolting.

 

“I’m not hungry,” Peter tries to protest, turning to give May his best puppy dog eyes. Unfortunately, the forgotten shiner hiding beneath his hood is all too noticeable, and May just gasps, reaching out to grab his chin with her long fingers.

 

“Peter!” She exclaims worriedly, carefully brushing a strand of greasy, unwashed hair out of his face to expose more of the angry bruise. “What happened?”

 

“Got it on patrol last night,” Peter mumbles without missing a beat, swallowing the familiar taste of used coffee beans and expired yogurt that permeates his mouth every time he lies.

 

“Oh, Petey,” May sighs, pulling Peter’s head to her chest in a comforting embrace. Peter lets himself fall into it fully, refusing to struggle against the weight of the world for just those few precious seconds.

 

May pulls away much too quickly and Peter sits up straight again, forcing a smile for his Aunt. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to notice how shaky he is.

 

“I’m alright, May,” Peter promises, biting his tongue to distract himself from the bitter flavor. “It’ll be gone by third period, I bet.”

 

May smiles back at him, warm brown eyes gazing at him with so much affection and love that Peter is immediately overwhelmed with guilt.

 

“Alright, Peter,” she says quietly, sitting down across from him. She clasps her calloused hands over his, holding them outstretched in the center of the rickety table, staring at them reverently. “I just can’t help but worry.”

 

Peter fights back the urge to cry, instead choosing to squeeze his Aunt’s hands lightly before pulling out of her grasp. He picks up his plastic fork and cuts a piece of his omelette away, bringing it up to his lips as he tries not to gag.

 

“Let’s just enjoy a nice breakfast together,” he suggest with faux-cheeriness, determinedly shoving the bite of food into his open mouth.

 

May gives a genuine, albeit wobbly, smile before tucking into her own breakfast, reassuringly tapping the rubber-soled toes of her work shoes against Peter’s sneakers under the table.

 

***

 

Peter doesn’t mean to eat the whole omelette.

 

 _Stupid, stupid idiot!_ He thinks harshly to himself as his feet carry him towards Midtown High School of Science and Technology. _Stupid, disgusting idiot!_

 

His stomach rumbles loudly and Peter has to bite his fist to keep himself from screaming right in the middle of the sidewalk as he recalls the disastrous events that unfolded less than ten minutes ago.

 

_May is watching him like a worried Mother Hen, so Peter decides to eat half of his breakfast in order to appease her. But the second the gross, slimy omelette touches his tongue, Peter’s control is yanked from his grasp._

 

_His limbs move of their own accord, betraying him as they push calorie after disgusting calorie into his system. Before he can even attempt to stop their traitorous movements, his plate is already emptied, save for the sheen of grease where the omelette once lay._

 

Peter shudders as he remembers shoveling the egg-and-cheese goop into his mouth like some sort of starving animal.

 

( _You_ are _a starving animal, doofus,_ the rational part of him pipes up. Peter winces at the harsh reminder, instantly deciding that he should never try to comfort someone, ever.)

 

Peter picks up his pace, hoping to burn off any trace of his breakfast before he arrives at his school. A tense moment passes before he hears the shrill bell ring, signaling the beginning of the classes. He sighs tiredly, breaking into a full on sprint.

 

He’s still a quarter mile away, and he’s going to be late.

 

***

 

The day goes by much too slowly, and it’s only a quarter past three in the afternoon when Peter arrives at the Avengers’ Compound.

 

He thanks Happy as he steps out of the car, waving at the dark silhouette in the tinted windows before letting the fake smile slip from his face. He begins the hike up to the Compound's entrance, watching the gravel crunch beneath his feet listlessly.

 

F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s robotic voice greets him as he passes through the doors, immediately beginning to guide him towards the communal living room rather than his usual path to Mr. Stark’s labs.

 

Dread starts to gnaw at Peter’s stomach, and his mind races as he walks the familiar white halls of the Compound. Mr. Stark stands menacingly in his mind’s eye, glaring down at him as he demands Peter give him his suit back and never speak to him again.

 

Peter knows that his worries are irrational, but he can’t help the sigh of relief that escapes him when he enters the communal living room to find Clint lounging around on the couch, munching on a PB&J sandwich without a care in the world.

 

“Hey, Spider-Kid!” Clint greets him happily, hopping off the couch to come over and wrap Peter in a hug. “You’re gonna be stuck with me today!”

 

Peter returns the hug stiffly, knowing that if he lets himself relax, he’ll fall apart. But at Clint’s words he pulls back, confusion clear on his face.

 

“What?” He asks aloud while simultaneously moving his hands to sign the word as well. It’s become a habit by now, for Peter to use ASL to communicate with the archer. Of course it’s not really necessary when Clint has his hearing aids in, but Peter knows how much it means to him to see him make the effort.

 

Just as expected, Clint’s expression softens into something fond, and he playfully ruffles the younger boy’s hair.

 

 _Tony got called away on a last minute business trip_ , Clint signs, fingers moving through the air deftly. _Pepper called him herself, said it was urgent_.

 

Peter visibly deflates at that, looking forlorn as he stares at his shoes. He’d really been looking forward to working on Mr. Stark’s Mark 49 suit today, but without his mentor here, he won’t be allowed in the labs.

 

 _I guess I should just head home then_ , the teen signs after a pause. He bends down to retrieve his backpack when he feels Clint’s hand on his upper arm, steady and grounding.

 

“Oh no you don’t,” the archer speaks audibly, one hand still anchored on Peter’s shoulder. “You’re gonna spend some time with good ol’ Uncle Clint!”

 

Peter must make a face at that, because Clint pouts, beginning to drag him over to the sofas that sit directly in front of a huge flat screen TV.

 

“C’mon, Petey-Pie!” He whines, bending down to turn on the Wii. “Just relax for once, be a kid, have some fun!”

 

Peter is already backing away, a million excuses forming in his throat and sitting pretty at the tip of his tongue. “I—I really shouldn’t, Clint, I’m sorry. I have homework and May—“

 

“Aha!” Clint suddenly exclaims, cutting Peter off as he abruptly stands upright. He’s holding two worn out Wii remotes, one pink, one white.

 

“I call the pink one!” Clint yells as he hurls the other Wii remote at Peter.

 

Of course, Peter catches it, but the _smack_ of hard plastic into his palm is enough to make his still-stiff tendons flinch.

 

Taking a moment to adjust to the strange turn of events, Peter sets the remote on the table next to him, once again preparing to offer his teammate some lame excuse as to why he can’t stay.

 

But just as the teen opens his mouth to speak, Clint turns to face him, a wide grin splitting his face.

 

“We’ve got Mario Kart,” he sing-songs, all too aware of how much Peter loves the game.

 

Peter hesitates, obviously conflicted as he grapples with the choice before him. Finally, the tense silence is broken as the boy gingerly scoops up the Wii remote and shuffles over to the couch, offering his friend a small, timid smile.

 

“I’ll play, but only if I get to be Toad.”

 

Clint nods enthusiastically, returning Peter’s shy smile with one bright enough for the both of them.

 

“You got yourself a deal, Petey-Pie!” he chuckles. “Now, are we thinking Coconut Mall or Rainbow Road?”

 

***

 

A short while later, Peter and Clint find themselves with a small audience.

 

Natasha and Sam have joined them in the living room, leaning against the back of the couch as they watch the two race each other to the virtual finish line.

 

Natasha can’t remember a time when Peter has ever looked so young and carefree. Of course he often smiles and laughs with his teammates, but every expression always has some degree of hardness to it, like Peter is actively holding back the full span of his emotions. It’s not something she’s noticed before—up until this moment, Natasha was under the impression that Peter was simply a rather inexpressive boy. But now, seeing the stark contrast in the mischievous smile he gives Clint after knocking the older man’s character off the race track, Natasha is sure of one thing.

 

She doesn’t know Peter Parker as well as she previously thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story now has a discord! The invite link is: https://discord.gg/g7pAym and it is valid for 24 hours. If you are reading this after the invite has already expired, feel free to comment that you need one and I’ll reply ASAP :)
> 
> I want to give a huge thank you to my friend @spicyjarvis for helping me put together this server. We spent hours working on it, and she was so kind and patient, no matter how many stupid questions I asked!
> 
>  **PS:** If any of you are confused as to what happened in the time between the ending of chapter two and the beginning of chapter three (this chapter), know that that is the point ;)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Wonderful Betas: @screamingalex @magniloquentChanteuse
> 
> My Fantastic Revisionist: @FullMetalNerd
> 
>  **Trigger Warnings**  
>  _Note: this list pertains only to this chapter._  
>  Swearing, Self-Depreciation, EDNOS Thoughts and Behaviors, Breif References of Suicidal Ideation, Violence

Peter’s impromptu gaming session with Clint is enough to keep him going for the rest of the week.

 

On Wednesday, while the warm feelings are still strong, Peter manages to convince his brain that he deserves  _ both  _ breakfast and lunch. The meals are strictly low-fat and he still skips dinner while out on patrol, but it’s the most Peter’s eaten in a single day since overhearing  _ The Conversation_, so the rational part of him accepts it as a victory.

 

Thursday goes similarly, if a little less smoothly. Peter eats a small breakfast of a protein bar, granola, and yogurt (593 calories in total—he looks it up), but Ned has to lecture him about his enhanced metabolism for the entirety of fourth period to get Peter to agree to eat lunch.

 

(One slice of pizza from the school cafeteria is a whopping 330 calories, much to Peter’s horror.)

 

Patrol that night is quiet, and the lack of movement makes him restless. It gives him too much time to think.

 

Friday morning rolls around, and the last remnants of happiness from Tuesday’s events fade away, leaving that familiar hole in Peter’s chest, empty and waiting for the hurt to fill it once again.

 

His stomach is the same way for the rest of the day.

 

***

 

Saturday morning sees Peter in the back of Happy’s car, on his way to the Avengers Compound once again.

 

As per his schedule, Peter is spending the next two days and one night training with the rest of the team. May works double shifts on the weekends, so she’s just happy that her nephew isn’t out patrolling the city for forty-eight hours straight while she’s not there to stop him.

 

Except when Peter finally arrives, he barely has a moment to drop his bags before F.R.I.D.A.Y. passes along Mr. Stark’s orders to suit up.

 

“Hey, Spider-ling,” the AI plays back the pre-recorded message. “Get dressed and get down to the Quinjet. We’ve got a mission back in the city.”

 

The teen rolls his eyes as he yanks out his Spider-Man suit on the way to his room, internally cursing his Parker luck for making him drive all the way up here just to be sent back. He’s pulled from his thoughts, though, when another message plays, sounding marginally more annoyed.

 

“And hurry the hell up, kid, or we’re leaving without you!”

 

Peter halts dead in his tracks, frozen in the middle of the living room as the words wash over him. He can’t stop the panic that seizes him in that moment, the fear of all his worst nightmares seemingly seconds away from coming true.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut tight as he drops his suit and starts shucking his shirt off right there in the middle of communal living room. He’s too terrified at the thought of being kicked off the team to worry about the lack of privacy.

 

_ Everyone’s probably already in the hangar, anyway_, he figures to himself as he slips his jeans off, trying not to look at the scars and fat on his body.

 

***

 

Everyone is indeed already in the hangar, and they’re all mildly annoyed by the time Peter comes stumbling in, still in the process of pulling on his mask.

 

“Took you long enough,” Mr. Stark says as they all crowd into the Quinjet.

 

Peter doesn’t respond.

 

“Right, so, as I was saying,” Steve announces, clearing his throat as his eyes linger on Peter pointedly. “There have been multiple reports of armed robot attacks in Manhattan within the last twenty minutes. Apparently, both local police and the F.B.I. have been unsuccessful in subduing the bots, so they have secured a perimeter as they wait for us to come and assist.”

 

Natasha scoffs, and Peter jumps when he realizes that she is directly behind him.

 

_ Stupid spider-sense_, he grumbles internally.  _ You’re supposed to warn me about stuff like that! _

 

(His spider-sense, of course, does not respond.)

 

“You mean save their asses and take the blame for their shortcomings,” Nat corrects, condescension clear in her voice.

 

Steve frowns at her bluntness, but doesn’t say anything. It’s clear that he agrees with her statement, but is trying to stay neutral for the sake of the team.

 

“This shouldn’t be too difficult,” he says instead, turning back to the rest of them. “It can’t be too different from dealing with doombots.”

 

“Yeah,” Sam says with laugh. “Those things are more of a pest than a problem.”

 

The tension that has saturated the team since they entered the Quinjet seems to lift at the joke, and Peter lets out a deep, relieved breath.

 

_ Easy-peasy_, he assures himself as he surveys the approaching city on the horizon.  _ I can do this, no problem. _

 

***

 

“We have a problem.”

 

Nat’s voice is sharp, even through the static of the comms.

 

“Some of the bots are starting to branch off from the main group. They’re heading for the perimeter.”

 

Mr. Stark swears, the sound of repulsor blasts echoing in the background. “We’re swamped here—we can’t afford to spare a single team member!”

 

_ And that’s my cue_, Peter thinks to himself, already turning his back on the fray.

 

“Okay, Mr. Stark. I’ll go handle them,” he says into his comm, careful to keep the sting of rejection out of his voice. He may be an Avenger to the rest of the world, but he knows the team will never truly think of him as such.

 

(That’s alright, though. He doesn’t really think he deserves to be an Avenger, anyway.)

 

“Great, Spider-Man, thanks,” Steve acknowledges distractedly.

 

Peter nods, even though he knows no one can see him. He’s just about to disconnect the link when Nat speaks again.

 

“Don’t forget to alert us as soon as you’re back in range,” she reminds him, and Peter pauses. Normally, he would assume that she simply thinks he’s incompetent, but the note of concern in her voice makes him wonder otherwise.

 

“Right,” Peter answers quietly, before finally turning off the comm.

 

His heart feels just a little bit lighter, he notices, as he swings from one building to the next.

 

***

 

Peter’s vision swims as he webs his way across the skyline of Manhattan, the sounds of the battle not far away reaching his ears. He’s been chasing these damn robots for the last five minutes, and the constant, dizzying movement is starting to take its toll.

 

His body protests when he lands a moment later, sticking to a wall of one of the many high rises surrounding him. His heartbeat is erratic, rattling around his chest like coins in a change purse.

 

Peter takes a deep, shuddering breath, wincing at the way his burning lungs protest. His muscles feel as stiff as a corpse’s, and the bones they’re wrapped around are beginning to feel brittle.

 

(He really should have eaten something today.)

 

A scream from below has Peter leaping off the wall, free-falling for several seconds before shooting a web to catch himself.

 

(He ignores the little voice in the back of his mind that begs him not to.)

 

Swooping down in an arc, Peter yanks the screaming pedestrian out of the way just in time. The neon-blue stream of light emitting from the robot’s maw skims the teen’s upper arm, carving a bloody line into his flesh.

 

Peter groans in pain, firmly but gently pushing the shaking woman towards the police brigade just a dozen feet away. She stumbles a bit as she runs, but is safely behind the makeshift border in a matter of seconds, much to Peter’s relief.

 

He is just about to web up the steadily bleeding cut when his spidey-senses go haywire.

 

Peter ducks as another streak of blue light soars over his head, narrowly missing him.

 

In a flash, Peter scuttles underneath an abandoned car, taking cover. He lets his senses reach out like feelers to scout the space around him, searching for his attacker.

 

_ Blood. Peter can smell blood. It’s rusty and sharp and it hurts his nose, but he doesn’t have time to think about that right now. _

 

_ Concrete. Peter can feel concrete. It’s hard and jagged and pressing into his chest, but he doesn’t have time to think about that right now. _

 

_ A low whine. Peter can hear it, not even a foot away from him—it’s a loud, keening sound, similar to that of Mr. Stark’s repulsors. But he doesn’t have time to— _

 

Wait.

 

Peter scrambles out from under the car just before it explodes in an inferno of neon-blue light.

 

The force of the blast knocks him a good ten feet forwards, and the world around him blurs as his eardrums protest against the incessant ringing. He forces himself to stand on wobbly legs, blinking the world back into focus before he shoots a web at the nearest building and launches himself into the air.

 

Peter scans the street quickly before locating the robot. It still feels like his eardrums are being drilled with a jackhammer, but his spidey-senses are enough to warn him that his foe is powering up for its next shot.

 

Quickly, the teen crawls across the building, hoping to throw the bot off by making himself a moving target. It seems to work, as the bot holds its fire, struggling to get a lock on the elusive spider.

 

Suddenly, Peter halts, and the robot fires.

 

But Peter is fast, and by the time the shot of blue light reaches the brick building, he’s already swinging through the air to the next.

 

While the robot is re-charging, Peter makes a sticky landing against another wall and shoots a web at one of the doors of the blown-up vehicle. He tugs on it hard, using his stickiness to provide as much leverage as possible. The door rips off with a shriek, and Peter sends it flying in the bot’s direction.

 

The still-smoking metal crashes into the robot, knocking it flat on the ground. Peter spider-jumps over to it, immediately clogging its laser shooter up with his stickiest, thickest web. The low whine of the bot tapers off into an ominous rumbling sound, and before Peter can find out what it means, he leaps onto the bot’s shoulders and rips its head clean off.

 

The robot goes still, and then collapses in a heap on the blood-soaked pavement.

 

Peter lays next to it as he tries to get his breathing under control again.

 

“That was too close,” he murmurs exhaustedly. Although the constant, painful noise in his ears has faded, it still sounds like he’s underwater. “ _ Way _ too close.”

 

“ _Would you like me to alert Mr. Stark that you are in distress, Peter?_ ” Karen asks, startling him. He almost forgot that she was listening.

 

“N-no!” Peter gasps, immediately sitting upright. His head spins in protest, but he pushes it aside, forcing himself to his feet. “No, Karen, don’t do that. I’m fine, really.”

 

The teen breaks into a light jog, eyes scanning the buildings around him for one that’s tall enough to get him back to the group. He spots one about a hundred feet away and speeds up, ignoring the wave of nausea that crashes over him.

 

(There’s nothing in his stomach for him to throw up, anyway.)

 

“ _You have a bicep wound that has been bleeding for the last six minutes and fifty-two seconds, and your eardrums have been considerably punctured. In addition, your vitals, while consistent, seem to be displaying signs of malnutrition and dehydration. I would recommend that you_ —“

 

Peter cuts Karen off, feeling more than a bit guilty when he snaps at her.

 

“I  _ said  _ no! Enough already!” he yells just as he reaches the right building. He scales it easily, despite the throbbing pain in his upper arm.

 

He pauses at the top, sighing as he mumbles out an apology.

 

“Sorry, Karen, I’m just a little bit stressed out right now.”

 

“ _It is perfectly alright, Peter_ ,” Karen answers. Her voice is deceptively soothing, and he is surprised to realize that she almost sounds like… May.

 

Peter briefly wonders if Mr. Stark pre-programmed that, or if Karen’s user interface simply synthesized it from the few times she’s heard his Aunt’s voice.

 

“Thanks,” Peter coughs awkwardly, shoving down the emotional turmoil that’s threatening to spill out. “So, um, could you—could you reconnect the comms now? I need to let the others know that I’m coming back.”

 

Karen responds with an affirmative, and Peter takes a minute to spray a thin layer of web over the two-inch long cut on his bicep. It stings like a bitch, but it’s the best he can do for the time being.

 

Peter is just shooting his first web when Clint’s voice crackles in his ear.

 

Peter smiles when he hears it, remembering the fun time he’d had with the archer on Tuesday.

 

“Sorry to interrupt,” Peter speaks into the comm after Clint’s words have faded. “But I’m on my way back.”

 

There’s a second of silence, and Peter can feel his anxiety rising.

 

“What do you mean, on your way back?”

 

Mr. Stark’s voice is hard, and Peter gulps. He sounds the same way he did after the whole ferry incident a few months ago.

 

“I—I’m swinging back over to you guys, from—from the perimeter,” he stutters, trying to keep the hurt and fear he feels out of his voice.

 

_ Does he not remember asking Peter to go? _

 

To his horror, Peter starts to tear up at the thought.

 

“Oh, right, right,” Mr. Stark finally says. His voice sounds genuine, and relief courses through Peter, but embarrassment immediately follows. “Sorry kid, for a second there I forgot you went to pick off the stragglers.”

 

(Peter shouldn’t expect Mr. Stark to remember where he is at all times—the man’s an Avenger! And Avengers have bigger things to think about.)

 

“It’s cool, Mr. Stark. When I left, everyone was still pretty busy out there.”

 

( _You’re an Avenger too, Spider-Man_ , his brain reminds him. Despite the uncharacteristically encouraging words, Peter only feels worse.)

 

It takes just a few lingering seconds of silence before Peter is back to acting like his usual, overly-chipper self. He doesn’t want to distract his teammates by worrying them with his stupid teenage angst.

 

( _If he’s an Avenger, then why does he feel so alone?_ )

 

Eventually, muscle memory takes over. Peter isn’t really paying attention to the quips he exchanges with Clint and Sam, feeling like he’s just reading lines from a script. When Steve huffs an exasperated reprimand at the three of them about chattering on the comms, Peter is actually thankful for the excuse to stay quiet.

 

He’s just about to reach the others when everything suddenly goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Join my Discord!
> 
> https://discord.gg/bxuDXe


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Wonderful Betas: @screamingalex @magniloquentChanteuse
> 
> My Fantastic Revisionist:  
> @RinnyKi
> 
>  **Trigger Warnings**  
>  _Note: this list pertains only to this chapter._  
>  Swearing, Self-Depreciation, Non-Graphic Depictions of Injury

“Spider-Man should be back by now.”

 

The worry in Natasha’s voice is lost over the static of the comms, but her words still manage to send a ripple of unease throughout the whole team.

 

“Spidey?” Clint asks, directly addressing the boy in question.

 

There’s no answer.

 

“Spider-Man, come in,” Steve orders, and everyone sucks in a tense breath as they wait.

 

“I see him.” There’s a pause, and while it’s not the voice they were all hoping for, Bucky's words do offer some sense of relief.

 

There’s a slight rustling sound, and Bucky speaks once again, but his voice is distant, like he’s talking to someone right in front of him rather than through the comms.

 

“You good, Spider-Boy?”

 

***

 

Peter comes back to himself the moment he hits the ground, crying out in pain as his back slams hard against the concrete.

 

He lays there, desperately trying to retrieve the air so viciously stolen from his lungs by the impact as he mentally scans his body for aches—or, well, considering the fact that every single one of his cells currently feels like they’ve been tossed in a blender, he scans for any _more_ _prominent_ aches.

 

His ankle is the first thing he notices, and he silently thanks a God that he doesn’t believe in that his feet took the brunt of his fall. Though that most certainly means his talus bone has acquired a hairline fracture at the very least, it also means that the more important parts of him—like his _spine_ or his _skull_ —will likely not be too banged up.

 

Of course, it’s immediately after that thought when his brain decides to re-enact the birth of Athena—axe to the skull and all.

 

Or, well, that’s what it feels like to Peter.

 

 _Definitely a concussion_ , the teen concludes a moment later, after the pain has subsided to a dull throb. “Fucking _ow_ ,” he adds aloud in a mumble.

 

It takes Peter a few more seconds than he likes to admit, but upon finally noticing the lack of reprimand for his foul language, his hand shoots up to his ear and— _wow, fuck, okay, his thumb is_ definitely _dislocated, holy_ fuck _that hurts_ —feels around for the distinct bulge of his comm, only to find nothing but smooth, unstretched spandex.

 

Just as he’s about to force himself to his aching feet, Peter hears a familiar, gruff voice call out to him.

 

“You good, Spider-Boy?”

 

Peter carefully sits up, turning his head in the direction from which the voice came. About thirty feet away stands Bucky, his vibranium arm cradling an assault rifle like a baby as he watches Peter silently. He’s too far for the teen to make out his expression, but Peter guesses it’s one of annoyance.

 

 _You don’t deserve to be on the team, Parker_ , Flash’s words run through his head, and despite the fact that the other boy wasn’t talking about the Avengers when he’d said them, Peter still thinks they apply perfectly to this situation as well.

 

“I’m good!” Peter finally yells back as he spots his missing comm blending into the black pavement a few feet away from him. His fingers close around it, and he holds it up for Bucky to see before quickly slipping it back into place under his mask.

 

“—e jus’ got a little friendly with the pavement,” Peter catches the tail end of Bucky’s statement, and although the rational part of him knows the laughs of his teammates are likely born of relief at him being okay, the irrational part of him _insists_ that they’re all laughing about how pathetic and useless he is.

 

And Peter is in too much pain to fight himself over this, he’s too tired to have this argument _again_ , so he just accepts it, letting go of the last shreds of logical thought that he’s been clinging to for so long.

 

It’s less tiring to be lonely, he realizes. There’s no second guessing about whether someone cares, and it’s no longer disappointing after inevitably realizing that they don’t.

 

(No one ever does.)

 

“My webs missed, sorry,” Peter pipes up after the laughter of the Avengers has subsided to a volume that he can actually speak over. He masks the pain-induced shakiness of his voice with sheepishness, knowing any lingering quiver will be interpreted as embarrassment.

 

(Peter knows he is certainly a lot better at this “lying thing” than most people give him credit for. The knowledge makes him sad.)

 

“Guess I’m gonna have to do some aim training with Spider-Baby, eh?” Clint teases, garnering a few more chuckles from his team.

 

If Peter hadn’t just sentenced himself to a lifetime of metaphorical solitude, he might feel a sting of betrayal at the archer’s words. After all, Clint is the one who granted him a brief respite from the ever-present darkness just a few days ago, and Peter cracked himself open—just a bit—in return.

 

(Peter is used to hurting himself in order to obtain things he wants or needs. He deals in human _transactions_ rather than human _interactions_ , and has for quite sometime now.)

 

As it is, Peter no longer tries to convince himself that he’s friends with these people, or that they think of him as anything other than a barely-tolerable tool. Therefore, Clint’s—no, Hawkeye’s—words don’t even hurt.

 

(Or at least that’s what he tells himself.)

 

“You bet, Bird-man,” Peter quips, biting his lip as he resets his dislocated thumb. The pain is blinding for a minute, and he misses Hawkeye’s reply. He doesn’t particularly care.

 

Alas, he has appearances to maintain. He may accept that loneliness is his best option, but that doesn’t mean he can just stop protecting people—including the Avengers.

 

(Besides, Peter is used to being unappreciated. He doesn’t mind. He understands. He doesn’t think he deserves appreciation either.)

 

“Sorry, Bird-man, I couldn’t hear you over the sound of my awesomeness,” Peter says, half-wondering if maybe he got these acting skills from one of his parents. But the thought makes him sad, so he pushes it to the back of his mind, packing it away into the big box labeled “DO NOT TOUCH” in his warehouse of a brain. It’s dirty and abandoned and full of fragile things—it's a perfect representation of him.

 

His thumb still throbs and he can’t help but drag his ankle a bit, but he begins walking nonetheless, following the sounds of battle. He’s never let injuries stop him before, and he’s not about to start today.

 

“I _said_ ,” Hawkeye repeats, injecting a hint of annoyance (Peter doesn’t bother wondering whether it’s playful or not—all hope of positivity has abandoned him to his impervious loneliness) into his tone. “We’re almost done here. You’ll be able to rest your itsy-bitsy spider-butt soon enough.”

 

“Har har,” Peter answers through clenched teeth. He wants to tell the other man just how much he hates all their stupid nicknames for him, how he wishes that just for once, they’d stop treating him like a _baby_ , but he doesn’t. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

 

 _Why so angry today, Spider-Man?_ His brain taunts him, and Peter clenches his fists, shivering in delight at the distraction that the pain of the gesture offers him. But of course, it only lasts a second, and then Peter is once again stuck with questions he doesn’t want to answer. _You wondering if you’ll always be such a failure? Are you worried that you aren’t ever gonna make good ol’ Uncle Ben proud?_

 

Peter swallows loudly, resisting the urge to smash his head against the nearest brick wall. He just wants his brain to be quiet, and for his thoughts to stop trying to eat him alive. His head hurts, his body hurts, but more than anything, his heart hurts. He wants to turn it all off—the words, the pain, the anger and the emptiness and the _guilt_. Everything he does is saturated in it, in the heavy oppressiveness of trying to make up for the loss of someone he can never replace. He hates it, he hates his life, he hates himself. He’s just a waste of space, and he knows it.

 

 _God, don’t I fucking know it_ , Peter thinks angrily, blinking rapidly beneath his mask. _Don’t you dare cry, Parker. Don’t you fucking_ dare.

 

He doesn’t.

 

***

 

When they arrive back at the Compound, all Peter wants to do is go to bed.

 

He’s tired, he’s sore, and he really doesn’t want to spend the next hour skirting the tempting food that is offered to him by people he has to pretend don’t hate him.

 

Ergo, beddy-bye time.

 

Unfortunately, his goddamn _fucking_ Parker luck has other plans.

 

The second Peter steps off the Quinjet and makes to leave the hangar, a large, metal hand _thunks_ itself on Peter’s shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.

 

(And making him wince in pain, because _jesus fuck that’s the one with a slice like the Grand Canyon in it why the_ fuck _did you have to grab_ that _one god fucking damnit_ ).

 

“Oh no you don’t, Underoos,” Mr. Stark says loudly, falling into step beside Peter and guiding him in the opposite direction of his bedroom. “You’re not retreating to your teen-cave without getting checked by medical first.”

 

Deep in his bones, a rage so hot it feels like wildfire sparks threateningly.

 

“I’m fine Mr. Stark,” Peter answers breathlessly, taken aback by his own reaction. He _never_ lets that anger see the light of day. _Never_. The closest he’s ever gotten to letting it rip through the barbed wire that is his skin is growling in Flash’s stupid face after one too many homophobic comments. It’s never made him nearly _punch_ someone before.

 

His brain conjures up images of used coffee beans and expired yogurt.

 

 _Never an Avenger_ , he mentally corrects. After a second, the images fade away.

 

“Hey, there’s only room for one devilishly-handsome-yet-fatally-selfless hero on this team,” Mr. Stark quips, continuing to steer Peter towards the MedBay.

 

The words “It’s a good thing I’m not part of the team then, huh?” sit oh-so-temptingly on the tip of his tongue, but Peter bites down hard enough to draw blood to stop them from coming out. Instead, he offers up an excuse that is only a half-lie.

 

“The MedBay freaks me out,” Peter whispers, eyes appropriately downcast. “It’s too much like a hospital— it makes me— makes me remember…”

 

Peter’s performance is stellar. It makes Mr. Stark’s eyes fill with pity, and although the teen hates being looked at like a god-damn baby bird with a broken wing, he’s not an idiot. He knows how to use things that fill him with shame and disgust to his advantage. Like pity, brought into existence by a few well-picked words and a wobbly, adolescent voice.

 

To himself, Peter adamantly denies feeling any guilt for his minor manipulations of the man he once thought of as a father.

 

Besides, it is a kindness from Peter to let Mr. Stark think his aversion to hospitals is due to the many losses in his young life. The truth would be too much for the sensitive billionaire to handle.

 

(Peter knows this, and so he handles it all by himself. He locks the truth inside a steel box in his brain, and loses the sole key somewhere in the ruins of the warehouse that is his consciousness.)

 

“I’m gonna regret this,” Mr. Stark finally says after a pregnant pause, the entire duration of which he just gives Peter the skin-crawling pity-look. “But I _guess_ you can skip the MedBay— but only if you promise to let Bruce check you over somewhere else.”

 

Peter briefly considers fighting it, demanding that he just be left to rest, but the thoughts blow away like tumbleweeds in a strong wind. He knows that this is the best he’s going to get in terms of a compromise. After a second of hesitation, he silently nods his head.

 

“Okay,” he says quietly, shyly. The Avengers may think he’s just a liability out in the field, but they’re still good people, and good people are very easy to manipulate.

 

(Peter feels sad, knowing what it means that no one can manipulate him.)

 

The “child-in-distress” shtick always works like a charm.

 

 _That’s because you_ are _a child in distress, idiot_ , his brain unhelpfully informs him.

 

Often, Peter wonders just how insane he would look if he screamed something akin to “shut the fuck up you useless hunk of nerve-endings!” seemingly unprompted. Mostly, he wonders whether he could get away with it without being put in a straight jacket.

 

_You mean again?_

 

Peter sure is doing a lot of that wondering right now.

 

“Bruce is probably in his lab, right now,” Mr. Stark informs him. Then, in a voice that’s almost gentle, he asks, “Do you want me to walk down with you?”

 

Peter shakes his head quickly, stepping out from under the man’s heavy hand.

 

“I’m fine, Mr. Stark, thank you,” he answers quietly, eyes still trained on the floor.

 

The billionaire’s hand drops to his side like dead weight, and the dull _thud_ of metal-on-metal reverberates around a moment of hesitation. Then, the red and gold plates of the suit start shifting, and Peter looks up to see Mr. Stark stepping out, a slightly disgruntled smirk on his face.

 

“Fine, but just know that the next time we go on a mission, I’m gluing the damn comm to your ear.”

 

The teen flushes a bright red and forces what he hopes comes across as an embarrassed smile, rather than a pained grimace.

 

“Sure, Mr. Stark,” he mumbles, discreetly shaking his curly, brown hair into his eyes. It provides him some sort of comfort, knowing that his expression is partially obscured; its easier to hide the cracks in his facade, that way.

 

Unable to stand the scrutiny any longer, Peter turns on his uninjured heel and stalks off, his gait stiff and unnatural from the pain radiating throughout his body.

 

The teen is so focused on trying not to limp, trying not to show any weakness, he misses the worried, lingering gaze of his mentor still watching his retreating form.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Join my Discord!
> 
> https://discord.gg/raDvAe
> 
> Also, we hit 10k! That’s pretty dang cool! Thank you all so much for reading, and double thank you to those of you who leave kudos and/or comments! Sorry there was such a long wait for this chapter—I was having a bit of an “I-hate-everything-I-write” phase for a while, there :P


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Wonderful Beta:  
> @screamingalex  
> My Fantastic Revisionists:  
> @RinnyKi  
> @magniloquentChanteuse
> 
>  **Trigger Warnings**  
>  _Note: this list pertains only to this chapter._  
>  Swearing, Self-Depreciation, EDNOS Thoughts and Behaviors, Brief Suicidal Ideation

“Peter, you may be a genius, but when it comes to self-preservation, you’re about as smart as a bag of bricks.”

 

Bruce’s voice is light, but he still manages to convey his disapproval. The two of them are in Peter’s room, the teen slouching on his bed as Bruce makes sure he won’t suddenly keel over and die within the next few hours. Peter’s throat tightens at his teammate’s admonishment, and he has to swallow back the sudden urge to scream the words, “ _That’s because I want to_ die!”

 

He’d _definitely_ be put in a straight jacket again if he said that.

 

“Hey, my mentor _is_ Tony Stark. What else would you expect?” Peter points out, an amused smile on his face.

 

Bruce sighs loudly, shaking his head in exasperation as he disinfects the cut on Peter’s upper arm.

 

“You two are gonna be the death of me,” he mutters ruefully.

 

Peter frowns at the thought, turning away so Bruce can’t see it. He hates worrying the man, but he can’t for the life of him understand why he seems to _care_ so much. It goes against everything Peter has come to accept as reality, and the mystery frustrates him beyond belief.

 

“You know, Peter,” Bruce pipes up after a few minutes of silence. His voice is gentle, almost paternal, and the sudden _longing_ Peter feels makes his heart twist with pain. “If all of this is getting to be too much for you, you can always take some time for yourself. We won’t be mad at you— after all, you’re just a kid. No one would fault you if you needed a break from the whole “saving the world” gig you’ve got going on.”

 

While a small, hidden part of Peter longs for him to see the blatant care and concern in his idol’s words, the teen’s mind is overrun with a debilitating fear, blocking out any semblance of logical thought.

 

“Wh-What?!” He yelps, nearly vaulting himself off his bed. Seeing Bruce’s eyes widen, Peter takes a deep breath, calming himself enough to regain control of his volume. “No, I— I’m fine, Bruce, really. I just— I forgot to eat breakfast, this morning, is all. Aunt May was already at work when I woke up, and it just… slipped my mind.”

 

(It’s true that Peter didn’t eat breakfast earlier, but it’s not because he forgot.)

 

Bruce looks torn, unsure whether to believe the doe-eyed boy standing on unsteady feet before him. After a long moment, he sighs heavily, scrubbing a hand over his tired eyes in resignation.

 

“Alright, Alright, I believe you,” he finally says. “But you’re not missing another meal today, so get changed. We’re going to go eat dinner with the team, like a proper dysfunctional family.”

 

With that, Bruce strides out of the room, closing the door behind him with a firm click as he leans against the wall of the hallway and settles in to wait for the youngest Avenger.

 

In the privacy of his own bedroom, Peter peels his suit off, wincing as the bruises on his back twinge in pain. Turning around, he looks over his shoulder in the mirror at the myriad of deep blues and purples before shuddering in disgust.

 

 _If I wasn’t such an incompetent failure, I wouldn’t have all these injuries_ , he thinks to himself bitterly. Then, he glances down at the dusting of yellowish-green across his mostly healed knuckles, and has to fight back the urge to scream. Oh, how he _wishes_ those were from something as simple as fainting while web-slinging.

 

 _You’re a monster, Spider-Man._ A million mingling voices whisper in his mind. He claps his hands over his ears, but he can still hear them, angry and disappointed and full of hate. _Don’t you forget it._

 

“I’m a monster,” Peter mumbles, staring despondently at his reflection in the mirror. His gaze falls upon his hands again, and a look of utter contempt appears on his face.

 

“A _monster_ ,” the teen spits venomously, glaring hard at the mirror. “A _monster_.”

 

***

 

Steve is in the kitchen making dinner when Tony speaks, a sarcastic lilt in his tone masking an emotion that even his enhanced hearing can’t quite name.

 

“I thought you were going right to sleep, Underoos?”

 

The words make Steve turn around, only to see Peter sending Bruce a pointed glare.

 

“That _was_ the plan,” the teen huffs, crossing his arms over his chest in obvious agitation. Bruce just rolls his eyes at the display, stepping further into the kitchen.

 

“Well maybe if you had actually eaten something today I wouldn’t have to drag you away from bed to eat your dinner,” he says firmly, grabbing several plates and beginning to set the table.

 

Steve’s eyes slide over to where the teenager is standing, and for a second, he thinks what he’s seeing must be a trick of the light.

 

Peter looks horrible. His skin is ashen, and sickly smudges of jaundice-yellow beneath his eyes make them seem sunken and almost too big for his face. The kid is practically swimming in a pair of flannel pajama pants and his school sweatshirt, the faint outline of knobby knees that don’t touch making him look like he could be knocked over by a strong puff of breath. His collarbone peeks out of the navy drapery masquerading as clothes, and Steve can clearly see the line of it all the way from the frighteningly deep dip of the boy’s sternum to the end of his shoulder.

 

Steve knows Peter is on the smaller side, sure, but he’s resembling Steve’s past self far too much for the man’s liking.

 

The spark of fierce protectiveness in his chest is unexpected, but not unwelcome. Peter has hovered somewhere in between _wow, that kid is really fucking strong_ and _wow, that is really a fucking kid_ for months now, and it’s only natural that Steve wants to keep him safe.

 

Shouts of protest bring the super-soldier out of his brief reverie as he realizes that his teammates are currently reprimanding Peter for the blatant disregard of his own health.

 

“What?!”

 

“Peter!”

 

“Kid!”

 

“That’s not healthy!”

 

The scoldings come from all around him, the loudest ones from Tony, Sam, and surprisingly, Nat. Peter looks like he wants to shrink in on himself until he disappears, and that newfound protectiveness rears its head.

 

”Peter,” Steve says softly, catching the boy’s eyes. “You know people like you, Buck, and me need to eat more than most. We could _die_ if we don’t, with our enhanced metabolisms.”

 

”I know, and I’m sorry,” Peter admits, cheeks flushing red with embarrassment. “Honestly, I’ve been eating well every other day this week, but I overslept and couldn’t grab breakfast this morning. I’m sorry.”

 

Steve holds Peter’s gaze for a moment longer, and, seeing the boy’s earnest brown eyes staring up at his own, he sighs, deciding to grant him the benefit of the doubt.

 

“Fine,” he concedes, effectively ending any further discussion from his teammates. Then, he crooks his finger in Peter’s direction, a no-nonsense look on his face. “But you better get over here and help me cook.”

 

Peter hesitates only for a second before nodding and shuffling over towards Steve, head bowed and shoulders hunched in shame.

 

“No need to look like you’re about to face the firing squad, son,” Steve jokes, trying to lighten the mood. “My cooking isn’t _that_ bad, is it?”

 

Peter looks up, a grateful expression clear on his face as he latches onto the change of subject like it’s his lifeline.

 

“Well...” he hums, slipping easily back into his usual sassy demeanor. “It’s better than my aunt’s, that’s for sure.”

 

Tony barks out a laugh at that, and Steve is left with the distinct impression that he should _not_ eat anything May Parker makes.

 

***

 

Cooking with Steve is torture.

 

Every few minutes he makes Peter try something or another, saying he needs an “unbiased opinion” on spices or temperature or consistency or _whatever_ new culinary terminology he can come up with. It’s a pitiful ruse to make sure Peter eats something, and for that reason alone, the teen feels that familiar stranger of bone-deep rage simmer and spit beneath his skin for forty-five never-ending minutes.

 

Finally, _finally_ , the food is done, and everyone sits down to eat. The team practically unloads half the dinner table on to Peter’s plate, and the teen can’t help but stare at the pile of calories, dread creeping up his spine.

 

Next to Peter, on his right, Sam watches the silent, still boy with concern, before realization dawns on him. Leaning closer, the man lowers his voice, a note of sympathy in his words.

 

“Are you and May not used to this much food, Pete?” He asks, unaware of Natasha’s razor-sharp gaze focusing on them.

 

Peter startles, looking up at the dark-skinned man with wide, chocolate brown eyes.

 

“Huh?” He asks, gaze flickering between his plate and Sam’s encouraging expression. Then, understanding dawns over the teen, and his face closes off, only to be replaced with hard lines and a set jaw.

 

“Yeah,” he mumbles, staring a hole into the table. “We don’t— she works a lot, but sometimes it’s— I mean, I’m not like, _starving_ or anything, by any means— things are just— yeah...”

 

Deciding he’s done with the conversation, Peter shoves a piece of steak into his mouth, shooting Sam a weak smile before hopping into the conversation between Clint and Thor, purposefully speaking with his mouth full.

 

Throughout the entire meal, Peter’s brain screams at him, berating him for being such a failure, a freak, a worthless piece of shit with zero control. The insults tear into him, imprinting on his psyche, etching themselves into his subconscious. It’s like the words are graffitied onto the walls of his mind-warehouse, and no matter how hard he scrubs, they just won’t come off.

 

By the time three-fourths of the food on Peter’s plate is gone, the teen feels like he’s going to be sick. His stomach aches after not being filled for so long, and he is genuinely afraid he’s going to explode.

 

“Mr. Stark, I’m gonna die if I eat another bite,” Peter whines, hands bracing his slightly distended belly. “Can I _please_ be done now?”

 

Mr. Stark glances over at him, and Peter must have better puppy dog eyes than he thinks, because the man immediately melts, smiling and waving his hand dismissively.

 

“Of course,” the billionaire states, before his eyes track back to the living room. “Do you want to stay up to watch a movie with everyone?”

 

“No, thanks,” Peter answers politely, already standing up and pushing his chair back in. “Bruce said I should get as much rest as I can, give my body a chance to heal my bruises.”

 

( _And concussion, and fractured ankle_ , Peter doesn’t add on).

 

“That’s a good idea, kid,” Mr. Stark admits, eyes still on the glow of the TV in living room. “Mucho responsible.”

 

“That’s not—“ Peter starts, but then sighs in resignation. His words don’t matter, and Mr. Stark isn’t paying him any attention, anyway. Speaking would just be a waste of breath.

 

Turning around and silently exiting the kitchen, Peter stops pretending he’s fine and limps down the hall, moving as quick as he can to his room. He just wants the world to pause, to give him a chance to catch his breath—maybe even catch up—and nothing works better than sleep.

 

 _Or death_ , his brain adds unhelpfully.

 

Peter just sighs.

 

(He’s been doing a lot of that, lately).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed that little peek into Steve’s mind! I did a breif section from Natasha’s POV a few chapters ago, and I wanted to clarify that these “interludes” will continue to happen throughout the fic. While the majority is told in Peter’s POV, every so often, you’ll get to see things through the other characters’ perspectives.
> 
> Thank you all for reading, and double thank you to those who leave kudos and/or comments!
> 
> Join my discord!  
> https://discord.gg/jAk9aj


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CHECK THE TAGS. THEY HAVE BEEN UPDATED. IT’S IMPORTANT. Additionally, I would really appreciate if you would please read the author’s note at the end. It would mean a lot to me. Thank you.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> My Wonderful Beta:  
> @screamingalex
> 
> My Fantastic Revisionists:  
> @RinnyKi  
> @magniloquentChanteuse
> 
>  **Trigger Warnings**  
>  _Note: this list pertains only to this chapter._  
>  Swearing, Self-Depreciation, EDNOS Thoughts and Behaviors, Brief Suicidal Ideation (Past), Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution (Past), Implied/Referenced CSA (Past), Non-Graphic Rape/Non-con (Past), Graphic Non-Consensual Touching (Past), Unintentional Self-Harm, Minor Violence, Brief Descriptions of Blood

The golden rays of Sunday morning awaken Peter to a mostly healed ankle and a fully healed everything else, much to his satisfaction.

 

That satisfaction is short-lived, however, once he sees the time.

 

“Shitshitshitshitshit,” the teen panics, practically flying out the door and down the hall. It’s already ten o’clock in the morning, and he’s supposed to train with Bucky and Natasha today.

 

He skids to a halt in the kitchen, noticing the lack of breakfast food on the table.

 

 _Nice, I missed breakfast_ , he hums silently. _Small victories, I guess._

 

(He refuses to acknowledge just how fucked up that sentiment is).

 

”Hey Shortstack, it’s training day,” Bucky greets him from behind the counter.

 

The nickname smarts as Peter is reminded of his pathetic stature, but he pushes it to the back of his mind, already stifling a groan.

 

All the calories Peter consumed the night before abandoned him, having been purged from his body either by the five hundred jumping jacks he did before bed, or the healing that happened while he was asleep.

 

He can feel the usual weariness resettling in his muscles like an old friend, can feel it making him dizzy and off balance where he stands.

 

But rather than complain, Peter walks over to the counter and snags the smallest apple in the bowl of fruit, making sure to flash Bucky a convincing smile.

 

Bucky smiles back and turns away to finish making his protein shake, and Peter hesitates to bite into the shiny, red apple, eyeing Steve warily. The man is hunched over his coffee, looking uncharacteristically exhausted.

 

_”Ugh, Tony, don’t even joke about that, it’s gross.”_

 

The words still ring in Peter’s ears, and he bites into the apple with a vicious chomp, feeling like he’s being torn apart. His body yearns to swallow it whole, but his brain rejects it—rejects the life-giving, fat-creating calories—and tries to force it out by spewing Steve’s words over and over in his mind like streams of hot lava.

 

The apple tastes dry and sour in Peter’s mouth, like used coffee beans and expired yogurt.

 

***

 

Back in his room, Peter pulls out a pair of black basketball shorts and a white t-shirt. He’s carefully avoiding looking in the mirror, knowing he doesn’t have time for his morning ritual, but wanting to do it anyway. His shorts keep sliding down his hips, and the thought that he’s stretched them out so much that the elastic no longer works makes him want to cry and scream at his reflection.

 

(He stubbornly avoids hoping there’s another explanation for it).

 

Peter briefly contemplates changing, but decided against it when he glances at the clock again. He’s late enough as it is.

 

Walking back through the kitchen is daunting, especially when he sees Steve, still sitting at the long table and nursing his coffee. He’s picked up a newspaper, and is leafing through the sports page with mild interest.

 

Suddenly, Peter realizes just how much skin ( _fat_ ) he’s showing, and he wraps his arms around his middle, self-conscious. He hurries past Steve out of the kitchen and into the elevator, ignoring the man’s mumbled greeting of, “Hey, Pete.”

 

When Peter finally steps off the elevator and into the gym, he sees that Nat and Bucky are shadow boxing.

 

The two former assassins dance around each other, hands and feet whistling as they strike at their opponent, only to find themselves grasping at air. The negative space around them blurs with the flurry of limbs, and Peter can’t help the awed gasp that passes his lips as he watches the two of them.

 

Bucky’s head snaps up, his brows furrowing as he stares at Peter silently. He doesn’t even flinch when Natasha swipes his side, not yet noticing their audience.

 

At the super-soldier’s lack of reaction, Natasha glances at his face before following his gaze. The second her eyes land on Peter, her expression turns from curious to stony, and the teen shrinks under their combined glares, feeling distinctly like an ant under a magnifying glass.

 

”H-hi” he stutters, shifting his feet and rubbing his upper arms to combat the sudden chill. “Sorry I’m late.”

 

Upon receiving no response, Peter takes a deep breath and forces his arms to drop to his sides. He strides up to the two silent Avengers, slapping a mischievous grin on his face.

 

“So, what are we doing today?” He asks, pointedly cheerful.

 

(Really, he feels like crying).

 

The adults exchange a long, meaningful look. Peter stays quiet, bouncing on the balls of his feet, attempting to pass off his anxiety as enthusiasm.

 

(His arms ache to reach up and hug himself, to wrap tight around his middle and offer both comfort and protection from the scary, scary world.

 

He keeps them glued firmly to his sides.)

 

Eventually, Natasha must win their little staring contest, because Bucky huffs and turns away, walking to the middle of the mat. Natasha looks over at Peter, her face neutral.

 

“You’re going to spar Barnes, and I’ll be watching for what you need to work on,” she informs him, her voice cold and clipped. It makes Peter want to shudder, but he forces a smile instead, jogging to join Bucky in the middle of the mat. They both settle into a fighting stance, and a few seconds later, Natasha signals for them to begin sparring.

 

Immediately, the super-soldier pounces, his flesh hand reaching out to jab Peter in the stomach as his metal arm blocks, but it swipes air as Peter jumps backwards just in time. He grabs the junction of the metal elbow and twists his hips mid air, using the momentum to yank Bucky to the side. The man’s stance is firm, but even he isn’t a match for Peter’s super strength, and he skids a whole foot across the mat.

 

Recovering quickly, Bucky closes the gap between him and Peter, hooking a leg around the teen’s ankle and pulling it out from under him. Peter lets himself fall forward for a split second before forcing his body into a flat-flip, wincing in sympathy as his heels slam down hard against Bucky’s shoulders, sending him into a crouch with a pained grunt. Peter lands behind him gracefully, albeit slightly out of breath.

 

Sparing a glance at Natasha, the teen sees that she’s watching them with the same stony expression she wears whenever she’s bored. His heart pangs a little in disappointment, but he shoves the feeling down violently.

 

 _Idiot_ , he chides himself silently. _Stop being so fucking sensitive._

 

Distracted with reigning in his stupid insecurities, Peter doesn’t notice the buzzing in his skull until it suddenly blares as loud as fire alarm, making him visibly flinch. He barely has time to raise raise his arms to protect his face from a metal fist.

 

But the metal fist never hits him.

 

Bucky’s flesh arm slams into Peter’s chest, and his leg sweeps the teen’s feet out from underneath him, knocking the him off balance.

 

Peter hits the mat with a _thud_ , and all the air is forced out of his lungs in one big _whoosh_.

 

Despite feeling a creeping sense of panic, Peter flips over onto his back, having learned his lesson about taking his eyes off his opponent. But before he can scramble to his feet, Bucky grabs Peter’s ankles and yanks the boy backwards, effortlessly dropping onto the mat and straddling Peter’s knees.

 

The super-soldier’s flesh hand pins Peter’s wrists above his head, while his metal hand sits on the teen’s throat. He doesn’t apply any pressure, careful not to hurt Peter as he lightly clasps his windpipe, simply representing the killing blow it would be in a real fight.

 

Peter falls apart anyway.

 

It’s not the feeling of something on top of him, crushing him like multiple tons of concrete slabs and stealing the air from his lungs that sends Peter into a panic. Nor is it the helplessness of his hands, restrained and out-of-commission like the time Doc Ock put him in a straight jacket.

 

No, what _really_ gets Peter is the feather-light touch of vibranium at his throat.

 

Because suddenly, Peter’s not in the gym at the compound anymore, and it’s not Bucky’s familiar, whirring hand on him.

 

_“So, I, uh, I d-don’t usually do th-this,” Peter informs the man, glancing at him from beneath his long lashes warily. He’s cold, standing in this empty parking lot at 11:30 at night, clad only in a pair of blue jeans and a thin, black t-shirt. His thick rimmed glasses slide down his nose, and he pushes them back up with the heel of his hand. “But I r-really need the m-m-money…”_

 

_The man is around Peter’s height, but stockily built in a way that the teen could never achieve. He looks to be in his late thirties or early forties, with hair that is noticeably thinning, but not yet gray. He looks Peter up and down appraisingly, before nodding his head and pushing off the dark blue car he’s leaning against._

 

_Peter shuffles forward nervously, his heart leaping into his throat as he registers just how dangerous the situation is. He’s done a few… paid favors… in the past, of course, whenever money was tight and rent was creeping up on him, Ben, and May, but nothing like this._

 

_Nothing that entails him enter the car of a total stranger, at night, with not a single soul knowing where he is._

 

_Stopping right in front of the open door to the back seat, Peter spins around, eyes downcast as he tries to escape before it’s too late._

 

_“A-actually, I changed my mind! I don’t—“ he stutters, attempting to push past the older man, who has gotten much too close for comfort._

 

_“I don’t fuckin’ think so, Princess,” the man whispers, blocking Peter in._

 

_Peter gulps, smelling alcohol on the man’s rancid breath. He tries to push past him again, but the man growls, shoving him inside the car and straddling him._

 

_“I promise you’ll get ya money, kiddie,” the man breaths, leaning over and starting to lick at Peter’s prominent collarbones. His tongue feels like slime and sandpaper, and Peter feels tears spring to his eyes._

 

_“St-stop, please,” he whimpers, struggling in the too-small space. “I-I-I don’t want y-your money, not any-anymore.”_

 

_“Relax, baby,” the man whispers in the teen’s ear, before nipping at the shell of it. Peter yells quietly and thrashes harder, but he can’t do much in the dark, limited space. “I’ll be gentle.”_

 

 _Peter slams his eyes shut tight as a meaty hand wraps around his throat and squeezes hard for_ one, two, three _seconds, before finally letting go, allowing the teen to breathe._

 

_“Unless ya like it rough, like a little whore?” The man asks, dragging his teeth across Peter’s neck, leaving tiny bite marks on the bright red skin. Peter shakes his head rapidly, praying to a God he doesn’t believe in that this nightmare will be over soon._

 

 _“No? Well, okay, sweetheart, I guess I can be nice, then, if that’s what ya want,” the man sighs, like he’s doing Peter a_ favor. _“But that’s only ‘cause you’re so damn pretty.”_

 

_With that, the man attaches his mouth to Peter’s and forces his tongue past the teen’s lips, making him gag at the intrusion. The man’s mouth tastes like cigars and cheap beer, and Peter has to fight down the bile that’s threatening to rise._

 

_“Pl-please, st-stop,” he begs when the man finally pulls away, hot breath panting in Peter’s face and assuaging his senses. “I-I don’t— I don’t want to!”_

 

_“Shoulda thought o’ that before seeking me out, boy-o,” the man answers, not a shred of sympathy in his voice. He lets go of Peter’s wrists for a second before pinning them beneath his knees as he unzips the teen’s fly. Peter bucks wildly, pleas falling past his lips in a waterfall as he strains against the man’s weight._

 

_“Please!” He screams, hot tears cascading down his face. “Stop! Please!”_

 

_Suddenly, Peter is flipped over, a seat belt buckle jamming into his hipbone painfully as his face is shoved down into the dirty fabric interior, muffling his cries._

 

_“Shut the fuck up!” The man hisses. There’s the sound of a buckle being undone, and before Peter can even begin to process what that means, his head is yanked back by his hair and something stiff is shoved into his mouth, tasting like leather._

 

_“Little shit, needin’ a fuckin’ muzzle,” the man grumbles, yanking hard on what Peter now understands is his belt. The man ties a sloppy knot at the base of Peter’s skull, keeping the belt securely in the teen’s mouth._

 

_Humming in satisfaction at his work, the man begins to roughly yank down Peter’s jeans, cooing in the boy’s ear the entire time._

 

_Peter cries silently the whole time, thrashing weakly underneath the man as he stares out the window._

 

_It starts to rain, and Peter watches the droplets of water splatter violently against the glass. He imagines himself as one of the tear shaped drops, imagines existing purely in the essence of rain outside the dirty car, rather than within it. He wants to be absorbed by the sun and taken far, far away from this hell to somewhere else, somewhere where there’s no more pain and suffering. He wants to hear Uncle Ben’s voice, he wants to hear the voices of his parents that exist in his mind only as echoey memories. He watches the rivulets of water streaming down the window, and wishes his consciousness would drip away like they do as stubby fingers dip beneath the waistband of his boxers._

 

_But it doesn’t, so he lies there, limp like a rag doll, just watching the water roll across the glass as every last piece of innocence is stolen from him._

 

***

 

Seconds after posing a killing blow, Peter starts wriggling around in Bucky’s grip, eyes blown wide and chest heaving. The super-soldier jumps off of the kid, observing his reaction with concern.

 

As soon as Peter’s hands are free, he starts clawing at his neck, raking bloody lines into the pale, delicate skin of his throat. Red liquid pools in the too-deep clefts of his collarbones, and Natasha rushes forward to stop him.

 

But Peter, wild-eyed and looking like a cornered animal, scrambles away from her approaching figure until his back hits the wall. Blood drips over his sternum and stains his white shirt as he continues to scratch, gumming up with the bits of skin being trapped beneath his bitten-down nails.

 

“Peter?” Natasha asks quietly, halting in her tracks. Her voice is as calm and gentle as possible, but the teen still whimpers, flipping onto all fours and scampering fifteen feet up the wall, clinging to it with the pads of his fingers like a lifeline.

 

Even from such a height, both former assassins can see the way Peter trembles, shivers racking him from head to toe in a way that almost makes him look like he’s convulsing.

 

”Peter, котенок, it’s me, Natasha,” the woman starts, her voice betraying her concern for the boy. “It’s November 15th. You’re at the Avengers Compound, in the gym. You were just sparring with Bucky.”

 

Slowly, the trembling dies down, getting better and better with each repetition of Natasha’s words. Finally, Peter looks at them, rather than _through_ them, and Bucky can see some of the fog lifting from his eyes.

 

“T-Tasha?” The teen stutters, voice painfully unsure.

 

“Hey, Petey-Pie,” Natasha answers, smiling reassuringly. “It’s me. Bucky is here too.”

 

There’s a pregnant pause as the woman waits for to Peter processes that information, before asking, “Peter, do you know where you are?”

 

The next pause is longer, and just as Bucky is about to suggest that they go get Stark, Peter speaks up.

 

”Yeah,” he whispers, dropping down from the wall and landing on his feet with a slight wince. The teen stares down at the floor, fidgeting with his hands as his shoulders curl in on himself.

 

“S-sorry, I just…” Peter trails off, shaking his head lightly. “I’m just— Sorry.”

 

Bucky desperately wants to know what the _hell_ that was all about, but Natasha catches his eye and subtly shakes her head, silently telling him to stay quiet. Bucky just stares at her, and the guilt and indecision must be clear in his expression, because she suddenly turns back to Peter and clasps her hands together, straightening her spine authoritatively.

 

”I think that’s enough for today,” she says quietly, the warning in her voice low enough that only Bucky can hear it, despite the fact that she is looking at Peter.

 

The teen mumbles in affirmation, eyes downcast as he darts out of the room and into the elevator, obviously itching to escape. Both ex-assassins let him, once again fixing their twin gazes on the sharpness of his elbows and the way his shoulder blades protrude from his back. The second the elevator closes, Natasha breaks the oppressive silence, her words like a knife to Bucky’s chest, twisting discomfort and fear into his heart.

 

“Something is wrong with Peter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. That happened.
> 
> If I’m being perfectly honest here, I have been debating with myself—ever since I started this story—if I was going to include this part of Peter’s past. To me, these events had always happened, regardless if they were written down and revealed to the audience or not. I decided to include this... controversial aspect because this story has been heavily influenced by my own experiences, and to leave out such a vital part of the story would feel like I was lying. I don’t think the audience—all of you—would truly be able to understand Peter’s outlook on life if you were missing this huge piece of the puzzle.
> 
> Now I know that I have likely driven away some of my readers due to this content, and I do want to apologize to those of you who have invested in this story, only to have to leave it behind. When I first published it, I did not add on the Rape/Non-con tag, considering I was, at that point in time, heavily leaning towards _not_ writing it. Obviously, things have changed. So, to these readers, I thank you for supporting my story up until this point, and hope our ways part with no hostility. I wish you all the best.
> 
> To those of you who do choose to stick around, I would like to know what you think of this chapter. Length-wide, it is the longest update by far, which is mostly due to the flashback scene. Let me know what you thought of that, and of the switch in POVs. Was Bucky in character? He’s a tricky one to write. Are you happy that the Avengers are beginning to share their concerns for Peter with one another, or do you think they are all still dense as bricks? Go ahead and yell at me in the comments—I love feedback in all shapes and forms!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Wonderful Betas/Revisionists:  
> @screamingalex  
> @magniloquentChanteuse
> 
> **Trigger Warnings**  
>  _Note: this list pertains only to this chapter._  
>  Swearing, Self-Depreciation, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution (Past), Implied/Referenced CSA (Past), Implied/Referenced Non-Graphic Rape/Non-con (Past), Brief Descriptions of Injuries, Bullying, Homophobic Languauge, Panic Attacks

MJ slides into her usual seat at their lunch table and slams a piece of paper down loudly, startling Peter awake from his customary lunch-time nap.

 

“Wake up, Parker,” she barks, “We’ve got shit to do.”

 

Sighing melodramatically, Peter lifts his head to see Michelle glaring at him, her arm slung around Nasira, her girlfriend. Nasira is smiling apologetically while nervously fiddling with her purple hijab. Peter eyes her suspiciously, before his gaze drifts to the slightly crumpled paper on the table. Immediately, he feels a wave of foreboding wash over him as he reads.

 

_ Midtown School of Science and Technology _

_ is proud to present _

_ the annual _

TALENT SHOWCASE

_ coming December 15th _

 

Peter is silent for a long moment, simply staring at the offensive flyer. Then, slowly, he looks back up, eyes darting between MJ and her girlfriend.

 

“This is a joke, right?” He asks, voice strained and higher-pitched than normal. “You’re just messing with me,  _ right_?”

 

The note of desperation clings to his last words fruitlessly, refusing to accept the answer behind MJ’s narrowed eyes.

 

“The act that places first is awarded five hundred dollars, Peter,” she says slowly, as if she’s speaking to a young child. Then, in a voice sharp enough that it cuts straight to Peter’s core, “We could both use the extra cash.”

 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Peter snaps, feeling defensive and trapped like a cornered animal.  _ Oh god,  _ he wonders miserably.  _ Does she know about my other job? _

 

“You’ve been saving up for that new LEGO set, haven’t you?” MJ asks innocently, but her eyes are still squinty, and Peter knows with the finality of a death blow that she’s perfectly aware of what he does on his  _ nights off_.

 

Peter is breathless when he answers, shame and panic threaded into every fiber of his being. “I don’t have any talents, though,” he protests weakly.

 

MJ rolls her eyes, but they’re no longer narrowed. She knows that she’s won. “Yes, you do. You can sing like a fucking angel, Parker. Stop trying to deny it.”

 

“You can sing, Peter?” Nasira asks quietly, looking at him with surprise.

 

“No,” he answers at the same time that both Ned and Michelle say “Yes.”

 

Michelle glares daggers at him again and Peter shrinks back, hunching in on himself.

 

“Um— I mean— I g-guess,” he mumbles, staring resolutely at the dirty tabletop.

 

“That’s right. Peter can sing, and I can play guitar,” MJ practically  _ gloats_. “Together, we can win the stupid talent show, easy as 3.14.”

 

Ned snorts at the pun and nearly chokes on his sandwich.

 

(Peter might thump his back just a  _ teensy _ bit harder than necessary).

 

“Fine,” he announces loudly once Ned’s coughs finally die down. He turns to MJ, his gaze sharpening. “I’ll do the stupid show with you, but you’re on your own with working out the details.”

 

MJ nods, a smug smile overtaking her face.

 

“Fair enough,” she answers smoothly, before beginning to gather her belongings. “I’ll text you our practice schedule later tonight.”

 

Peter nods tiredly, slinging his unopened backpack over his skinny shoulders and standing up.

 

“Great,” he mutters to himself. “Just. Great.”

 

***

 

“Parker!”

 

Peter doesn’t turn around as he walks through the doors of the building, the crisp Autumn air pinching his cheeks and turning them red. He resolutely ignores the voice of Flash, who continues to try and get his attention.

 

“Parker! Penis Parker!”

 

It’s only when Flash grabs Peter’s hoodie and yanks him backwards does Peter stop, forcing himself to stumble rather than spin around and lay Flash out right then and there. Sighing, Peter stares at the ground as he prepares himself for a barrage of cruel comments.

 

“Yes, Flash?” He asks tiredly, too done with the day to muster up even a little snark.

 

Flash smirks, an angry glint in his eye as he shoves Peter aside, slamming his bony body against the metal railing of the steps in front of them.

 

“Just wondering how many dicks you’ve sucked this week. Tell me, Penis, is the constant sore jaw really worth the money?”

 

Each word is like a knife in Peter’s back, and he has to grab the railing to steady himself as memories threaten to overwhelm him. He feels just like he did on Sunday when Bucky’s hand was wrapped around his throat, except he’s not being defiled in a stranger’s car—no, his mind takes him to the freshman locker room of Midtown High, and his clothes are off but nobody’s touching him, just staring,  _ why is he just staring _ —

 

_ The locker room was empty. The locker room was  _ empty _, and Peter was supposed to be able to change clothes in _ peace,  _ but now Harry  _ fucking  _ Osborn is standing there with his jaw on the floor as Peter scrambles to cover up, to hide the mess of scabs and bruises and bite marks from view— _

 

Flash is hovering over him now, and his eyes aren’t angry anymore. Instead, they just seem panicked, and he’s pulling on Peter’s arms, trying to get him to stand up—since when is he the ground?—to shut _ up_ , Parker, stop  _ crying_, Parker, you’re gonna get me in  _ trouble_, Parker,

 

_ “I forgot my phone,” Harry says lamely, eyes still trained on the place where the hand-shaped bruises on Peter’s throat have disappeared under a brown turtleneck. “Are you okay?” _

 

people are  _ staring_, Parker, move your fucking  _ legs_, Parker,

 

_ “I’m fine, Harry,” Peter answers breezily. _

 

I don’t have time for this  _ shit_, Parker—

 

_ But Harry Osborn has known Peter Parker since they were born. Their parents were best friends, an inseparable trio of scientific geniuses until the very end of the Parkers’ lives. Harry and Peter too, were inseparable, at least until Mary and Richard died. _

 

And then Flash’s face is gone, and instead of panicked brown eyes Peter is staring up at the blue, blue sky, but he’s not really seeing it, no, because he’s in the freshman locker room of Midtown High with Harry Osborn, and Harry is asking him if he’s being  _ abused. _

 

_ In short, Harry knows that Peter is a bitch-ass liar. _

 

There’s grass under Peter’s fingers, which is weird because he’s inside, in the freshman locker room of Midtown High.

 

_ “Peter, you’re a bitch-ass liar,” Harry iterates, and Peter stiffens, starting to pack up his things faster and biting his lip in frustration as his hands start to shake. _

 

_ “Who did this to you?” The older boy asks, and then a horrible thought occurs to him. “Was it your Aunt? Your Uncle?” _

 

The freshman locker room of Midtown High smells strangely like the outdoors, and Peter shivers because for some reason he’s wet, even though he didn’t shower.

 

_ “No!” Peter yells, and he looks at Harry for the first time since the conversation began. “Of course not!” _

 

_ Harry raises an eyebrow, and even though he knows it probably looks condescending, that’s not what he’s feeling at all. _

 

The locker room of Midtown High is really cold, too, the air stingingly sharp like a Fall breeze.

 

_ “Peter,” Harry placates, concern squeezing his heart. “If they’re hurting you—“ _

 

_ “They’re not hurting me, Haz, I swear,” Peter interrupts, his eyes wide and fearful. He doesn’t even notice the nickname he hasn’t used in eight years pass his lips. “They’re the best thing that’s happened to me since my parents died. They would  _ never  _ hurt me.” _

 

_ Harry notices the nickname, and his breath catches with nostalgia, but he doesn’t point it out. Peter and he have not been close in nearly a decade, but he still cares about the younger boy, and he’s not going to entertain far-fetched ideas of rekindling a lost friendship when Peter’s immediate safety is at risk. _

 

The trees in the freshman locker room of Midtown High have multi-colored leaves, and they sway in the cool wind like a Kaleidoscope. Peter doesn’t recall there ever being trees in the freshman locker room before, but the Kaleidoscope of colors is making his head hurt, and Harry doesn’t seem to notice the sudden woodland, so maybe he’s hallucinating?

 

_ “Then who is?” Harry pushes, unable to leave the subject alone. _

 

The walls of the freshman locker room of Midtown High have always been beige, but now they’re blue, blue like the sky Peter is staring at and the lockers are green, green like the grass Peter is laying on, which is weird because Peter is  _ inside_—

 

_ Peter’s features harden, and he shoves the last of his things in his bag as he slams his gym locker shut. _

 

_ “Someone who paid good money to,” he mutters darkly. _

 

_ It takes a moment for the other boy to make sense of the words, but when he does, Harry recoils so violently that Peter feels as if he’s been punched in the stomach. They both stand there like statues as they stare at each other, until Harry finally croaks an anticlimactic reply. _

 

_ “What?” _

 

_ Peter rolls his eyes, his beautiful brown eyes that are suddenly so  _ flat,  _ and his mouth settles in a grim line as he spits red-hot anger from his mouth in the shape of ten cruel words. _

 

_ “Not all of us have Daddy’s money to waste, Harry.” _

 

And then Peter is gone, out the door of the freshman locker room of Midtown High, and he’s staring up at the blue, blue sky with the green, green grass underneath him, and he realizes that he was never even there at all.

 

***

 

_ Harry hated me after that,  _ Peter writes in his sketchbook twenty-two minutes after calming down from a panic attack. As best as he could figure, Flash had dumped him in the closest park he could find the second Peter started freaking out on front steps of the school.  _ Why _ he took the time to do that, rather than just fleeing the scene, Peter doesn’t know. But he likes to think that maybe Flash  _ does  _ have some human decency after all.

 

The bark of the tree he’s leaning against scratches through his hoodie into the skin of his back, but Peter doesn’t move, too caught up in venting his feelings to a piece of paper to care.

 

_ Although I suppose I deserved his hatred. I said a cruel thing, because I knew it would hurt him and make him leave me alone, which he did. But he’s a good person, he is, and I don’t think he realized just how badly he would end up hurting me. If he had, I don’t think he would’ve done what he did. _

 

_ School the next day was terrible. People whispered “whore” under their breath as I walked by, and someone slipped a note in my locker with  _ **_FAGGOT_ ** _ angrily scrawled on it. I hate that word so fucking much. No matter how many times I tell myself that the dictionary says it means nothing more than ‘a bundle of sticks,’ I still hate it. _

 

_ Regardless, I just ignored it all like I usually do, at least until Flash came up to me in the cafeteria. _

 

_ He asked, loud enough for everyone to hear, “What it’s like taking dick for a living, Parker?” _

 

_ It was like being kicked in the chest, stabbed in the back, punched in the head…  _ _~~It was like being raped all over again.~~ _

 

_ Not twenty feet away stood Harry, his face white as a sheet. He was shaking his head, mouthing something at me—maybe that he was sorry, maybe that I deserved it. It didn’t matter. We made eye contact, and everything made a horrible, twisted sort of sense. _

 

_ Harry had told the entire school that I was the type of person who let dirty old men fuck me for money. It didn’t matter to him that I’d said no, just like it didn’t matter to Skip, or to the man who left me bloody and bruised in the rain after shoving a wad of fifty dollar bills into the waistband of my pants. My words have never mattered, as Peter Parker or as Spider-Man. _

 

_ “No” didn’t stop Doc Ock from slicing me up on his lab table to find out what makes me scream, “No” didn’t stop the Vulture from dropping a fucking building on me, and “No” certainly didn’t stop a bullet from piercing Uncle Ben’s heart. Nobody gives a shit about what Peter Parker—or any variation of him—has to say. He’s just a tool to be used, and people hate him because tools are only needed when something breaks. _

 

_ I’m a reminder of failure when I’m not needed, and just something to be used and screwed when I am. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m back! And after quite the break at that. Sorry to have left all of you on a (kind of) cliffhanger, haha. Junior Year has been kicking my ASS. I swear, it’s actually trying to kill me. Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! There was both plot progression and background in it, which was surprisingly hard to do. Oh, and more details as to why Harry did what he did will be revealed in later chapters, incase any of you were wondering. Thanks for reading!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Wonderful Betas/Revisionists:  
> @screamingalex  
> @magniloquentChanteuse
> 
> **Trigger Warnings**  
>  _Note: this list pertains only to this chapter._  
>  Swearing, Self-Depreciation, Flashbacks, Brief Descriptions of Violence, Implied/Referenced Past Abuse, Mentions of Religion, Mentions of Past Homophobia
> 
> **A/N:** Hi, yes, please point out any typos or formatting errors you may notice. I have a migraine as I'm updating and am liable to have made some mistakes. Thanks.

When Peter finally gets home, he finds a note on the table from May. It’s written in pencil, nothing but a hastily scrawled  **Be home by 8:30** **,** no signature, not even a period.

 

“Okay,” Peter answers the empty apartment, pulling out his Spider-Man suit and changing right there in the kitchen. There are no mirrors to mock him here.

 

As he’s slipping out the window a minute later, Karen greets him, informing him once again of his weak vitals.

 

_ “Hello, Peter.”_ Her programming hums in a low, soothing voice. _ “Your vitals do not seem to have improved since you last wore your suit. Should I contact Mister Stark?” _

 

“No, Karen,” Peter answers her the same way he does every time she asks. “I’m fine.”

 

_ “Very well, Peter,” _ the AI concedes in a reproachful voice.  _ “If you insist.” _

 

“I insist,” the teen says firmly, pausing as he hears a child nearly four blocks away wailing about their cat being stuck in tree. “Anyway, duty calls.”

 

And with that, Spider-Man is off, swinging from building to building so fast that his heart stutters. The rush of adrenaline is the only thing that makes him feel alive, these days.

 

Too soon, he arrives at the scene, and carefully approaches the young girl. He stops a good four feet away, close enough for her to hear him, but far enough that he won’t make her uncomfortable.

 

“Hi,” Spider-Man says quietly to get her attention. The girl, who can’t be older than nine, peeks out at him from behind her fingers.

 

“Hi,” she answers, surly. After a moment’s pause, she continues. “My cat’s stuck in a tree.”

 

“I can see that,” Spider-Man tells her. “Would you like me to get her down?”

 

The girl stares calculatingly at him for a long moment, before giving him a single, sharp nod. Her blonde ringlet curls stay stiffly in place, just like the rest of her.

 

Spider-Man nods back, before reaching up for the lowest branch and pulling himself up onto it.

 

“What’s her name?” He calls down to the girl as he begins climbing.

 

“Eloise,” she responds. “And I’m Emily.”

 

“Eloise is a very pretty name,” he offers. Then, before Emily can answer, he comes face to face with a fluffy white Persian, and immediately has to doge a clawed swipe from the kitty.

 

“Maybe. But she’s not very nice,” Emily adds, too late.

 

Peter huffs a laugh.

 

“I can see that, too,” he says for lack of anything else. Then, lightning quick, he pulls the hissing cat to his chest and jumps down, his feet hitting the half-frozen ground with a loud  _ thump. _

 

Shaking off the rough landing, Peter drops the enraged Persian into the waiting arms of Emily, who flashes him a bright smile as the beast immediately calms down and wraps itself around her tiny shoulders. “Thanks, Spider-Man!”

 

Peter gives her a wan smile in return from behind his mask, disconcerted by the overly-fluffy cat’s intense gaze. “No problem.”

 

With that, Emily skips off, chatting to her cat happily.

 

As he watches her walk away, Peter recalls a time when he, too, felt loved. He remembers the feeling of his dad’s large hand clasped around one of his own, the sensation of his mom’s thumb brushing away crumbs from the corner of his mouth…

 

For once, the memory of his parents fills him with warmth rather than leaving him feeling cold and alone.

 

Peter smiles, and on a sudden impulse, starts jogging toward the hot dog vendor he can see is only a few blocks away. For the first time since overhearing Mr. Stark and Steve’s conversation, he doesn’t feel terrified by the idea of eating.

 

_ This is kinda nice,  _ he thinks, and even in his own mind, his voice is just a whisper.  _ This is really kinda nice. _

 

***

 

“Peter?” May calls from the entryway, where he can here her shucking off her coat and shoes. “Are you home?”

 

“Right here, May,” her nephew responds, walking out of their shared bathroom with a small smile. Even in his darkest moments, seeing his Aunt May always make Peter feel a little bit better.

 

“Oh, good,” she rushes out, suddenly sounding nervous. “I need to talk to you.”

 

And just like that, Peter’s smile is gone.

 

“Uh, o-okay,” he stutters, following his Aunt as she moves to sit down on the couch. “Is s-something wrong?”

 

“I wouldn’t say that,” May answers, but her body is tense, and she’s doing that thing she does when she’s nervous, wringing the hem of her scrubs like a wet dish towel.

 

“May…” Peter ventures, fear starting to build low in his empty stomach, where there’s plenty of room for it to grow.

 

“Dammit, I’m freaking you out,” she curses under her breath. Briefly, she closes her eyes, as if trying to gather her thoughts together. Then, she takes a deep breath, a reaches out for Peter’s cold hands, holding them tight her grip. “Peter… I got a promotion.”

 

_ This is good news,  _ Peter thinks, even as he watches, dumbstruck, as his aunt’s eyes begin to water.  _ This is good news, right? _

 

“The job is in Mexico, Peter.”

 

_ Nope, this is not good news. This is very bad fucking news. _

 

“And you’re not coming with me.”

 

Peter’s mostly dickish internal voice metaphorically pats him on the shoulder.

 

_Oof_ _,_ it tells him, as he stares numbly at the last parental figure in his life, the one who isn’t being forced to leave him but is choosing to. _That’s rough, buddy._

 

_ Yeah_ _,_ Peter thinks back numbly.  _ Yeah, it really fucking is. _

 

_ *** _

 

The next morning, Aunt May tells him she’s sorry.

 

They’re sitting at the breakfast table, not touching their food. Peter can feel his Aunt’s pleading eyes on him as she breaks the tense silence. Obligingly, he looks up from his plate to stare at the gap between her eyes.

 

(He’ll break if he looks into them).

 

“Peter,” she warbles, tears already thick in her voice. “It’s not that I want to leave you, Honey, but the company that just bought the hospital gave us two options: take the raise and go work at the start-up clinic, or just  _ go._”

 

Peter pinches his hand beneath the table to keep the tears at bay, and nods like he believes her. His eyes must be too flat, too lifeless, too  _ dry_, because May tries again, a note of pleading creeping in.

 

“It’s just for a few months, Pete. Three, tops. Probably only two, really. The company just wants experienced staffers at the clinic until they kind find qualified locals. It’s their first international investment, they don’t want to mess it up. I promise I’ll be home soon.”

 

_ No you won’t_ _,_ Peter wants to say. A faded memory of his parents’ smiling faces takes the place of May, their features blurred and warped from time. Passively, Peter observes the image with his mind’s eye, careful not to cling to it. The more he does, the faster it fades away, leaving him unable to remember, yet unable to forget.

 

The memory shifts, and suddenly Peter is seeing Ben’s final moments, but unlike his parents, this is a scene Peter won’t ever forget. All he sees is red.

 

_ No one ever comes back. _

 

Suddenly, May’s face swims into vision, but when Peter looks down at his hands, hands that are still stained with his uncle’s blood.

 

“I know, May,” he answers after a long pause. His smile is strained as he meets her eyes, and he bites his tongue to keep from from yelling at her, because for some reason that burning anger is back and fighting to spew from his mouth and force his limbs to do its destructive bidding.

 

May lets out a long, relieved breath, seeming to take her nephew’s words at face value. Peter doesn’t know what to feel about that, so he moves on, sprinting his way to what he hopes will be the end of this god awful conversation.

 

“Where am I going to go?” He asks, already dreading the answer. “Cousin Meryl’s?”

 

Cousin Meryl is not any relative of Peter’s, but a semi-estranged second cousin of Aunt May’s. She’s about eighty years old, incredibly religious, uber conservative, and thinks she can beat the gay out of Peter with her dead husband’s belt. The belt has a wickedly sharp steel buckle, and lays next to said husband’s urn up on the mantle above her ancient fireplace.

 

Peter has less than fond memories of Cousin Meryl’s house.

 

“God, no, Peter,” May says with a shudder. “I’d never send you back there, not in a million years. I wouldn’t have sent you there in the first place if I’d known…”

 

May trails off, looking guilty.

 

_ Known what?  _ Peter wants to bite out, his anger nearly melting him from the inside out with its heat.  _ Known that dear Cousin Meryl would starve me? Hit me? Would’ve tried to exorcise me if you hadn’t come back when you did? _

 

“I know, May,” Peter repeats instead, body tense with the need to lash out. “Sorry I brought it up.”

 

May just waves away his apology, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. Then, she smiles—or, well, she tries to smile, but she looks more like she’s just sucked on a lemon.

 

“I think you’ll like where you’ll be living, Pete, even if it wasn’t my first choice. I would’ve preferred for you to come with me, but it wouldn’t be fair to pull you out of school, away from your friends, your  _ life.  _ Besides, Mexico City isn’t safe for you.”

 

Peter would argue those points, if he could open his mouth without biting his aunt’s head off.

 

“Anyway,” May continues, distinctly more awkward then before. “Your teammates agreed to take turns staying here with you during the week, and to let you stay with them on the weekends until I’m back from Mexico.”

 

Peter stares at May for a long moment, utterly confused.

 

“The Decathlon Team?” He asks slowly, sure she must be joking. Most of them haven’t talked to Peter since he quit back in October.

 

May stares back at Peter like she can’t possibly comprehend how he ever got into a school for smart kids.

 

“No, Peter,” she sighs. “The Avengers.”

 

Peter’s asshole internal voice starts cackling.

 

***

 

A week comes and goes, and Peter spends as much time as he can with his aunt, forgoing any Avenger or Spider-Man related duties. The guilt is corrosive in his stomach, burning and bubbling enough that he no longer feels hungry. But for May’s sake, so her last memories of him are happy, he eats anyway. He forces down an apple and a yogurt every morning, a fiber packed protein bar the second he gets home, and take-out each night. May, unaware of his newfound hatred for calories, thinks ordering junky food from his favorite restaurants is the perfect way to placate her distraught nephew for the duration of her last week in the States.

 

(If Peter forces himself to throw up his dinner every night that week, she doesn’t need to know.)

 

So when May leaves for the airport, he hugs her goodbye with dry eyes and a full stomach, hating life more fiercely than he has since Ben died.

 

He watches the yellow bumper of her taxi cab as far as his enhanced vision will allow before turning away and heading back into his building, dreading what the next few months will bring.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** Well this chapter really fought me the whole damn way. Fuckin' couldn't concentrate or think at all while I was writing it. And I know May's departure seems rushed, but if I didn't just get it over with then we'd never get the ball rolling, tbh. Ugh, I'm tired and my head is killing me. Hope you all enjoyed this chapter, even if it's short as shit. I tried to make it as good as possible, considering the struggles I had with it.
> 
> Till next time,  
> luxcurious


End file.
